


World's Finest: The End

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [12]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Bronze Age Talia al Ghul, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, Clark Tells the Truth, Found Family, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Alfred Pennyworth, Minor Bruce Wayne/Talia al Ghul, Minor Diana (Wonder Woman), Minor Lois lane, Minor Talia al Ghul, Minor Wally West, Multiverse, Past Bruce Wayne/Lois Lane, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Team as Family, The League of Assassins (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Bruce knows a few things: he is Bruce Wayne; he is an orphan; he is Batman; he is Dick’s guardian; he is a member of the Justice League; he is in love with Clark Kent; Clark is in love with him.And for a while, that's enough.  But he can't shake the feeling that maybe this isn't the best reality.  That Clark would be better with Lois.  And so when option presents itself, Bruce makes an executive decision.  He ends things.Clark knows one thing: sometimes, things end, and you can't stop them ending.  And all you can do is pick up the pieces that are left, look to tomorrow, do the best what you have, and not lose hope.And Dick? Dick knows that all of this really sucks.





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set at the end of the World's Finest: The Missing Issues series, spanning the summer a year after they first got together. I'd have left them together longer, except that Bruce does need to move on to Talia in my timeline, on account of Damian being born. And I do love Damian.
> 
> This also begins a couple of months after the formation of the Teen Titans (that story is on its way), which falls between Bruce's birthday and the beginning of this story.
> 
> Feel free to read and pretend that they get back together or that this is all an Illusion, but the goal here is that this does end in a way that allows for semi-canon-compliance. In my view, Bruce and Clark have a friendship that makes all the more sense if you see them as exes who have grown to be friends in the wake of that. This is the story of how that happens.
> 
> I'll be posting one chapter a night, so subscribe or tune in to keep up.

 

Bruce’s brow knit as he read through the astrophysics thesis for a fourth time.

 _The Multiverse_ , the author called it.

It made sense.

The League had recently encountered two parallel worlds. What was to say there _weren’t_ more? Infinite earths, like this paper argued?

The _what-ifs_ had haunted him ever since their encounter with their evil doppelgängers. If there could be a world with a fascist version of Clark and a murderous version of himself, anything was possible.

There could be a world where his parents had lived. Or where his parents had lived and he had died. Perhaps they would have gone to the circus that night in May and adopted Dick instead. Unless it were the world where Dick’s parents had not died, either.

It was a futile exercise, imagining all of the possibilities, dwelling on them. And he tried—he really tried—to center himself, to remind himself of his current reality.

He was in the Cave.

He was Bruce Wayne. He was an orphan. He was Batman. He was Dick’s guardian.

He was a member of the Justice League.

He was in love with Clark Kent.

But none of those were necessary facts. They were all contingent on a million different choices made by a million different people in a million moments. A few people, in particular. Himself. Joe Chill. C.C. Haly. Tony Zucco. Dick. Jor-El. Jonathan and Martha Kent. Diana. Clark. Lois Lane.

Any combination of different choices would yield a different reality.

And all of those realities existed, somewhere out there.

The feedback loop ate at Bruce, day and night. And so he’d programmed simulations, to test his theory. A million _what-ifs_. Moments in the past, moments now. Alternate presents, possible futures.

It was the right thing to do, scientifically speaking.

It was the worst thing to do, psychologically.

He watched himself die. Really, that hadn’t been the bad part. He watched himself die, and then he watched Dick train to take his place as Batman. He wanted to scream to Dick in the simulation, _no! No, that’s not what you’re supposed to do!_ But it was a simulation, another world. And Dick was just as confident, just as loyal, just as good in that world as this one. Probably just as unlikely to listen to that kind of warning even if Bruce could reach across the multiverse to give it.

He watched himself live and marry Selina, as if she’d never called everything quits without any announcement and vanished. That had been too strange, too unbelievable.

To cheer himself up, he watched a simulation of raising children with Clark. It was a good world. But it wasn’t this one.

He watched Lois accept one of Clark’s many early offers to take her to dinner. He shouldn’t have, but he did. Clark and Lois hit it off, in that simulation. And Clark was happy. Happier than Bruce had ever seen him.

Bruce quit the program, after that. He was here, in Earth One, as he called it (though once he’d thought of that, he’d also realized that every version of himself must have called his own earth _Earth One_ ) _._ What happened on other earths had to be problems for other Bruces to solve.

He went back to his study that night and tried to meditate. Focus on the reality around him. The sound of Alfred tinkering in the kitchen. The smell of the wood burning in the fire. His own breath.

He was in his study.

He was Bruce Wayne. He was an orphan. He was Batman. He was Dick’s guardian.

He was a member of the Justice League.

He was in love with Clark Kent. Clark was in love with him.

And that was his reality. That was what mattered.

And for a while, that was enough.

 

* * *

 

Clark had tried to start the conversation as soon as Bruce closed the door to his room. He’d arrived late to Dick’s play, and since curtail-call, they’d been small-talking with parents and teachers from Dick’s school, and then, of course, Dick had been there, with a million things to say about the performance. Finally, Dick had gone off to his room to call Wally, and Bruce had invited Clark upstairs.

But there hadn’t been much of a window for conversation before Bruce was dragging him into bed.

“Wait,” Clark said, holding him back.

Bruce retreated, studying him with a question in his eyes.

“I just… something happened today, and I want you to know,” he said, standing back upright. Maybe he was stalling, a little, but he’d run through the scenario and wasn’t completely sure how Bruce was going to react. He sat down in a wooden chair beside the bed and sighed.

Clark rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, leaned forward, and told Bruce everything. How he’d saved Lois from Toyman’s mechs, how she’d almost kissed him—Superman, of course—in response, how he’d told her not to (“We talked about this before, Lois. Anything between us endangers us both.”), how she’d then laughed and said it wasn’t for him anyway.

How he’d left… and then how she’d later found him as Clark and told him how grateful she was that they were both alive and confessed feelings for him—feelings that had apparently been building for some time.

She hadn’t been pushy or rude about it. _I know you’re with Bruce_ , she’d said, _and I don’t expect anything. I just hated the idea of dying and never telling you_. _This doesn’t change anything._

And it _wouldn’t_ change anything. He just wanted Bruce to know.

“I just wanted you to know,” he reiterated. “I don’t want to hide anything.”

Bruce took it all in stride, hiding any kind of reaction he might have had. A reaction would’ve been nice, but sometimes Bruce was like that, and Clark knew better than to expect otherwise. Still, some glimmer of emotion would at least give Clark a sense of direction. Appreciation for honesty, maybe. Or heck, jealousy, even anger. Clark was prepared for any of those.

But then instead, Bruce said, calmly as could be, “I think we should end this.”

Clark blinked, staring at Bruce. “I’m sorry, what?”

Bruce looked over repeated himself, word for word. Clark hadn’t misheard anything.

He shook his head, half-smiled in disbelief, a silent _you’ve-gotta-be-joking_. But Bruce’s brow furrowed and his lips tightened: _I don’t joke_. Clark felt his own heart-rate pick up, his breath shorten.

“ _Bruce,_ I just said: this changes nothing! I—”

“I know what you said.” Bruce sighed and stretched his fingers, flexing them and then relaxing them against his knee and staring at them intently the whole time. “But you have feelings for her. You always did.”

“I have feelings for _you_.”

Bruce smiled at that—a real one, showing evidence of some emotion, at least—but then the smile faded. “Maybe. But if you don’t let yourself do this…”

“We’ve been through this. Months and months ago. I told you then, and it hasn’t changed: I’m in this for the long haul, Bruce, and if I’m in, I’m _all_ in.”

“You also said that Lois would rather eat dirt than date you.”

Clark laughed darkly and shrugged. “Yeah, well. That _was_ true. And honestly, her changing course doesn’t change that past. At least you’re only disdainful a good twenty percent of the time.”

A hint of a smile passed over Bruce’s lips again, but then Bruce shook his head. “It won’t be good for us, in the long run. Bad days will happen, and you’ll think about this moment. You’ll question your choice to stay with a grumpy ass like me.”

“I _like_ your grumpy ass,” Clark said, trying to get Bruce to crack another smile, but he’d gone into stone-cold mode. So Clark hardened his defenses in turn. “Listen, you can’t—you can’t tell me how I’m going to feel in some _hypothetical_ future.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Of course he thought he could.

“Bruce, come _on_. We can’t live our lives around what-ifs.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Since last month.”

That hit harder than the initial proposal. Hit hard enough to hurt. Physically _hurt_. He swallowed and shook his head. “Last _month_?”

“The multiverse situation, with the League. Learning about that… seeing other versions of ourselves…” Bruce looked up now, a little warmth cracking through his icy exterior, though Clark wasn’t sure how that was remotely appropriate. “Somewhere out there is a universe where we aren’t together. Where you’re with Lois. And happy.”

“Yeah, Bruce, there’s also a universe where I’m a _Nazi_. Those universes don’t matter—that’s not us. We’re _here_. Living _our_ lives.”

“Yes. And if you date Lois and it falls through, you’ll just see that guy the same way you’d see any other Superman from any other Earth. Someone else. Not you. But if you don’t…”

Clark took Bruce’s hand, wrapping his fingers gently around it. “Bruce, please. That’s _my_ decision to make.”

“No. It’s not.” Bruce withdrew his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “It’s mine. That kind of what-if, that kind of resentment… I don’t want it. I don’t want the _chance_ of it.”

“So you’re just going to be an asshole _now_ , is that it?” Clark shook his head, still in disbelief, and stood up, throwing the chair to the ground in the effort. “Try to push me away so I can’t hurt you later? That’s not… that’s not how being in a relationship _works_. You can’t break up with me as a… as a _precaution_.”

Bruce stood now, too, and looked down at the chair, which was definitely broken in three places. “Call it a break, if you want,” he said, his voice unreasonably steady. “Just… go on the date, without worrying about me. If it’s a disaster, come right back. If you date for months and you realize it’s not what you want, if you still feel the way you do now, end it. I’ll still be here.”

“I can’t… you can’t just sit around waiting for me for an indeterminate amount of time. What if you’ve found someone else?”

Bruce barked out a dry, dark laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious!”

Bruce’s eyes fell to the floor, and a genuine smile pulled across his lips, warm and gentle. That was the Bruce Clark had fallen for, the selfless man underneath all the armor. He took Bruce’s hands in his and waited for Bruce to look back up at him, to meet his eyes. But he never did.

“Clark,” Bruce muttered, his voice strangled, as if the words were too genuine, too vulnerable to say. “There’s no one I wouldn’t drop to have you back.”

Clark leaned his head forward, resting his forehead against Bruce’s so their noses brushed alongside one another. “Then why drop me now?”

Bruce answered with a kiss, one full of longing and sadness, of adoration and tenderness. It was a goodbye.

And when it ended, Clark understood that there was no argument to be made that would change Bruce’s mind. Not one with words, at least.

“It’s gonna be awful hard seeing you at all the League functions,” Clark said.

“I don’t see why,” said Bruce. “League business is League business. We didn’t bring this into that.”

“We’ve always had an outlet,” Clark noted, taking Bruce’s waist in his hands.

The corner of Bruce’s lips tugged into a smirk. “If you still think I’m that hard to resist, I guess that’ll be a good sign, then.”

“I can’t resist. Attempt made. Break over.” Clark gave Bruce’s hips a light push, throwing him down onto the bed.

Bruce laughed, and he didn’t stop Clark, but then he held a finger to Clark’s lips and said, “This _starts_ the break. It doesn’t end it.”

Clark nodded. That would be tomorrow’s problem, and there was always hope for tomorrow. Tonight, or at least until Bruce left for patrol, none of that mattered. All that mattered was being with Bruce—the smell of leather and spice, the contrast of manicured hands and scarred back, the intensity of a fire burning in the night.

“Clark? Are we clear?”

“Clear as day.”


	2. Embers

 

It wasn’t as clean of a break as Bruce had proposed. Clark had been right: seeing each other at the new Hall of Justice Headquarters inevitably led to highly tense conversations at the Headquarters, which inevitably led to sneaking off and resolving that tension.

After a particularly bad League meeting two weeks into the break, Diana asked them both to stay behind. That was ordinary enough, but Clark had no doubts about the top item on Diana’s agenda.

“Okay, someone talk,” Diana said, once the other League members had all left. “What is going on between you? _Everyone_ can tell that there’s something wrong— _especially_ with you, Kal.”

Clark’s eyes fell. He might have contradicted Bruce’s plans a little more than necessary. Then again, Bruce was more arrogant and presumptuous than necessary.

“Hal’s started taking bets,” Diana continued, “on why you—and I quote— _aren’t getting laid_.”

Clark looked back up, mortified. “I—we’re—”

“We’re on a break,” Bruce explained, curt as ever.

Diana arched an eyebrow and looked at Clark, daring him to back up Bruce’s ridiculous claim.

“He thinks I need to ask Lois out,” he blurted out, “because of some research he did on the Multiverse, and—”

“You two are very _clearly_ still involved,” Diana noted. “Except before, you were productive. You were focused. You’re supposed to be _leaders_ , not adolescent boys. I suggest you work this out before someone gets hurt.”

She didn’t stay to hear their arguments. Clark couldn’t blame her. It was a ridiculous situation. Bruce had to see that.

“We have nothing to work out,” Bruce said, once he realized that Clark wasn’t moving to leave.

“Bruce,” Clark said, his voice low. Bruce’s heartbeat quickened. “I think we do.”

Bruce turned slowly, staring down Clark. “Have you talked to Lois?”

“Not yet. I can’t—it’s _only_ been two weeks.”

“Hh,” Bruce scoffed, looking back at the League computer. “Then there’s nothing to say.”

“I _miss_ you,” Clark said, reaching across to touch Bruce’s gloved hand. “Don’t pretend you don’t miss me.”

Bruce’s posture stiffened. He met Clark’s eyes, but said nothing. It wasn’t defiance. It was an internal wrestling, a chest heavily rising and falling while Bruce willed himself to resist.

“ _Tell_ me you don’t miss me,” Clark dared.

Bruce didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he grabbed Clark’s cape in his hands and pulled him back, crashing into a conference table as they kissed.

Clark had missed this. He released Bruce’s cowl and tossed it aside, freeing the sleek black hair beneath that he could run his fingers through.

And for a short time, the concerns of the break and other universes and anyone else vanished. 

If he could just find the right words, then maybe he could convince Bruce to let his worries go for good. He just hadn’t found them yet. This tense, explosive routine wasn’t sustainable. Diana was right.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said, handing back Bruce’s cowl later. “This in-between…”

“Fine,” said Bruce. “I can arrange appointments after League meetings, so we don’t have the opportunity to—”

“No. I don’t want to _end_ things. I want to stop this _break_. I don’t want to _try out_ dating someone else.”

Bruce pulled on his cowl, vulnerability disappearing under the mask. Clark hated it.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “I’m _talking_ to you.”

Bruce blinked. “I’m listening.”

Clark slipped his hands around Bruce’s waist and drew closer. “We’re tried this, and it doesn’t work. So let’s just go back to what we had. I was happy. You were happy, too. Weren’t you?”

The sound of Bruce’s grinding teeth made Clark shudder. But that was nothing compared to his voice, strong and unwavering, saying, “No.”

Clark stepped back, shaking his head. “No? But—”

“I wasn’t happy.”

“You’re _lying_.”

“No, I’m not.” Bruce narrowed his eyes, just bright spots behind the mask of black. “We had moments. But I’m tired of holding you back—”

“ _What_?” Clark shook his head. The blurry line between Bruce pushing him away and Bruce being an asshole was getting blurrier and blurrier. “You were never—”

“ _This_ is your chance at a normal life. Being with… someone who can… who can be what you deserve.”

“Don’t pull that baloney. I knew you, long before we started this. I _chose_ to date you. _You_. Not _Brucie Wayne, billionaire_ , but _you_. You in this mask,” he said, running a thumb along Bruce’s rough jawline, “you without it, the whole thing, with all the quirks and neuroses that go along with with it. I didn’t ask for _normal_. Or what I _deserve_. I _deserve_ to be with the person I love, and that’s you.”

“You aren’t listening to me,” Bruce snapped, swatting his hand away. “ _I._ _Wasn’t_. _Happy_. And I won’t be as long as I have no way to get rid of these… _doubts_.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue, but Bruce pressed on.

“It’s _my_ problem—I know that. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Bruce laughed, dry and humorless. “You never do, do you? But the answer is _no_. It’s over. If I have to step back from the League to keep it free of our problems, fine. I have enough to do in Gotham, anyway. You don’t even need to see me again.”

“ _Bruce_.” Clark tried to lean on a shelving unit, gripping it to cool his anger, but his hand tightened too much on the metal and it crumpled, nearly bringing the shelves down. He braced it and reached out for five different glass containers heading for the ground. And when he stood back up and turned back, Bruce was gone.

He could have chased him down, easily enough. But then what? If Bruce was done, they were done. And there was nothing he could do.

 

* * *

 

Clark spent the rest of the afternoon in a fog. Eventually, he managed to call Jimmy and meet up for a drink. The first time he said the words aloud was like speaking a curse: “Bruce and I broke up.”

“Mutually?” Jimmy asked. “Or…?”

Clark shook his head. His expression answered the question clearly enough, but he said, “Not _really_.”

“Sheesh. That really sucks, Clark.”

Clark nodded. “I guess I could’ve fought harder, but—he made up his mind.”

“You can’t force someone to be with you,” said Jimmy. “That’s not on you. That’s on him, for dumping the best guy on the East Coast. Who the heck’s he gonna find that’s better than you?”

A small smile pinched in the corner of Clark’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”

“I _know_ I’m right,” Jimmy said. “But hey—now you never need to go back to that shithole city of his. Just… forget him. You don’t ever have to see him again.”

Clark grimaced. He couldn’t explain how wrong Jimmy was.

“And hey, if it’s any consolation, Poppy dumped me too, so we’re in it together.” Jimmy raised his glass for a toast.

“Oh, gosh, Jimmy. That’s not… I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Oh, you know,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “The usual. _It’s not you, it’s me._ ”

Clark grimaced. “Yeah. I got that one.”

“Probably true for you, though. I’ve gotten it… five? Six times? In a row.”

And so Clark had listened, as Jimmy recounted his last six breakups. It didn’t make Clark feel better, exactly, but it was good to get out of his own head.

Still, after he helped Jimmy into a cab and started heading home himself, his way forward—which had seemed so clear, a straight and narrow path—stretched before him like a mocking grin. Everything had made sense. And now nothing did.

So he tried to make sense of the world the best way he knew: by saving it. He stayed up all night, flying from town to town, across the world, looking for problems to fix.

He just couldn’t fix his own.

And so as the sun rose over Metropolis, he called in a personal day to Perry and set his course for Smallville.

 

* * *

 

 

“Try to put yourself in his shoes,” Ma said, stirring sugar into her iced tea.

“How can I? He’s… being a _total ass_ , Ma.”

“Clark _Kent_.”

Clark clenched his jaw. “Well, he _is_. Words exist for a reason, and I don’t know a better word for him than that right now. He’s worried about hypothetical worlds, and ruining this one in in the process. He’s an ass.”

“He’s scared,” Ma corrected.

“No, Ma, he’s not—” Clark scoffed. “Fine. Maybe he’s scared. But this is a guy who goes on and on and on about harnessing your fear, blah blah blah. So what happened to that? He can go have people shoot at him every night, fight ninja assassins, throw himself out of exploding planes—but he can’t stay in a goddamn  _relationship_? I was— _we_ were—happy. Were’d all that go, huh?”

“Sounds to me like he’s hurting. People do fool things when they’re hurt.”

Clark furrowed his brow. She was right. He wasn’t just scared. He was hurt. Bruce had acted stoic, but Clark knew him well enough. That stoicism hid layers and layers of pain, and there was no way Bruce would do something this drastic if he hadn’t agonized about it himself first. Knowing that didn’t make Clark feel any better.

“But… this is only going to hurt him _more_.”

Ma nodded. “I know that. You know that. Heck, he probably knows that, too.”

“Then _why_ —”

“Clark, honey,” she said, covering half his hand with hers, “Some things just are what they are. Some things you can’t fix.”

“Then what do I do?” he whispered.

“What you always do: your best.”

He looked up to see her eyes shining, pride mixing with her own sadness.

“You stay patient. You keep your heart open and warm. You don’t let bitterness change how you feel, and you certainly don’t let it change who you are.”

Clark’s eyes fell again as he nodded at her words. “But what do I _do_? With Bruce, and Lois, and…”

“What do you _want_ , Clark?”

He shook his head. “I want what we _had_. But he’s… he’s made it clear enough. He won’t get back together unless I try things with Lois first.”

“Well, that’s what he _says_. He’s trying to control the situation.”

“Yeah,” Clark huffed. “He does that.”

“If you ask me,” Pa interrupted, suddenly standing in the doorway, back from his chores, “that’s the problem. That’s not any kinda love.”

“ _Pa_ ,” Clark groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“You said it yourself—he’s set the terms. He’s trying to control you. And that’s not okay.”

Clark leaned his head in his hands. “He’s… no. He’s trying to control the _situation_. Not _me.”_

“Splittin’ hairs,” said Pa. “Listen, son, I like Bruce. You know I do. He’s a good man, and if you work this out, I’ll be the first one congratulating you. But your Ma’s right. If you are going to be _anything_ with him again, he’s gotta learn limits. And that means you don’t play by those rules.”

“So, what, then? I do _nothing_?”

“It’s one option,” Pa said. “Don’t play the game. Just focus on your job. Bruce’ll come around.”

Clark wasn’t so sure. Bruce was possibly the most stubborn person he’d ever met.

“Or,” Ma offered, “you _could_ go on the date with Lois, flub it on purpose, and go back to Bruce.”

“You _know_ I can’t do that,” Clark groaned, hiding his face back in his hands. 

“Because you still have feelings for her?”

Clark shrugged. “I—I guess so? It’s hard to sort out. I haven’t… thought about it for a while, you know?”

“Course you haven’t.” Ma smiled.

“But… yeah. Probably. She hasn’t changed. Neither have I. And I liked her _before_ …”

“Understatement, but okay.”

Clark looked away, cringing at the memories of it. Like the time he had unearthed an old high-school notebook with CK+LL scrawled all over it and decided that it was some kind of sign—that Lana had been the wrong person with the right initials. And then Lois had _seen_ it on his desk, and he’d spent the afternoon convincing her that Lana Lang was a bona fide person whom Clark really had dated, and no, it had nothing to do with _pathetic crushes on coworkers_ , as Lois had put it.

“Then you can make a good faith effort to make things work with Lois. Let Bruce go.”

“But what if he just avoids me forever? He said he wouldn’t even come to League meetings… It’s not like it’ll be easier for him if I’m with someone else…” He pinched his brows together. “He’s my _best friend_ , Ma. Even if I do kinda want to punch him in the face, I don’t want to lose him.”

Ma’s hand squeezed his now, wrapping around his fingers. “You won’t. He’ll be all right, with time.”

“ _Will_ he?”

“He’ll have to be. You’re both friends with Diana. You both care about Dick. Those relationships will keep you connected.”

An awful thought hit Clark. “What if he doesn’t let me see Dick? He can’t do that, can he?”

He could definitely do that.

Clark corrected himself: “I mean, he _won’t_ , right?”

“There’s no way Dickie doesn’t light a fire under his grill once he learns about this, if he hasn’t already,” Pa noted. “Dickie looks at you like you’re his sun and stars. He won’t let Bruce keep you from him. And I know Bruce sets his own mind to things, but he loves that boy more’n _anything_ in this world.”

That much was true. Clark nodded.

“I guess so,” he said. “Still, I wouldn’t count on Dickie making it for harvest this year.”

“We already weren’t,” Ma noted. “He told us—he’s in a big play.”

She pointed to the fridge, which held a card sporting a whimsical watercolor of a strongman holding a tower of items on a dumbbell wile balancing on a red ball. Dick’s preferred stationary—used for people he cared about, unlike the dull professional-looking set Bruce had insisted on getting him, emblazoned his monogram.

Pa nodded. “He knows he’s welcome, whenever.”

Clark smiled. “Thanks, Pa. But what—”

His cell phone buzzed on the table in front of him.

_Lois Lane_ , it said.

“Go on,” said Ma. “It could be important.”

He hadn’t _heard_ her calling for help. There was no reason to think it was urgent. But she was still his partner, and he hadn’t exactly told her that he was skipping town for a while. He answered on the third ring. “Hey, Lo.”

“Don’t _Hey, Lo_ me, mister!”

Clark squinted, trying to figure out why she could possibly be angry. He’d turned in all his work before leaving…

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s _Friday_. Jimmy and I were latte-less all morning! We had to drink the shitty office coffee.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are. If you weren’t such a boy scout, I’d find it fishy that you’re the only one who misses your day. I didn’t even know you were out for the day until Perry told me. Where are you? Some hotel in Fiji with Bruce?”

“Uh, no,” he said, sighing. “Bruce and I broke up.”

He held the phone away from his ear just before she shouted, “ _WHAT?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“What the _fuck_? How’d that happen?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“He dumped you, didn’t he? That selfish, short-sighted, bastard better—”

“No—he, um. He thought it was for the best, for both of us.”

“Uh huh. Should I go to Gotham and take a baseball bat to his stupid expensive car? Beat him up?”

“No, you—”

“I’ll _do_ it. I could take him.”

Clark laughed despite the ache in his gut. “No. That’s not necessary.”

“All right. That’s fine. I can ruin him with words. That’s easy.”

“Don’t—ruin him.”

“Ugh, fine. So what, then? You’re trying to win him back?”

“I don’t think that’s an option right now. I just…” He looked between Ma and Pa. “I think I just have to give it some space. Give us both some space, so we can at least be friends again.”

“Well, that’s mature.” She sounded almost disappointed.

“Thanks.”

“You need a distraction? I have to fly to New Orleans to check out some info on that oil spill.”

“No, that’s all right. I think being home is good for me.”

Lois scoffed over the line. “Kent, I’ve been to your _home_. It’s a roach-infested shoebox.”

“Not the studio. _Home_ home.”

“You… went back to Kansas? To your _parents’_ house? Wait, no. Of _course_ you did.” She laughed, but it wasn’t cutting or cruel. “Never change, Kent.”

“Thanks, I think?”

“You’re sure about New Orleans?”

“I’m sure.” Maybe the distraction _would_ be good. And he could be helpful, with an oil spill. But then, he wasn’t keen on seeing Lois—not right now. “I’ll be back on Monday.”

“Suit yourself. But listen—I’m at the burrito cart, and if I drop my guac while balancing my phone, I’m never gonna forgive you. I’ll catch you later.”

“All right, Lois. Safe travels.”

“Thanks. And Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“Let me know if you change your mind about the baseball bat.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead, and Clark set down the phone, sighing.

“Space, huh?” Ma asked.

“I guess. You really think he’ll come around?”

“I do,” she answered. “Some people are just _meant_ to be part of your life, one way or another, however long it takes. You and Bruce… I don’t know know everything in the world, but Bruce is part of your life—part of ours, too—and he’ll keep on being. Maybe you’ll marry him. Maybe you’ll be better friends than we have words for. I don’t know what it’ll look like, but I don’t have a second of doubt about that.”

A small smile made its way to Clark’s lips, and he nodded before looking up to Pa. “You think so, too?”

Pa shrugged. “Far as I’m concerned, he’s family, so we aren’t giving up, that’s for sure. And what you two do—it’s more than a job, son. You and Bruce and Diana… and heck, Dickie, too… you’re _special_. You each have _every_ reason to let us all rot, to get what we deserve, but you don’t. There aren’t too many people in this world that can share that point of view. I don’t think Bruce’ll throw one of them away forever.”

“Yeah. I’m just afraid…”

Ma clicked her tongue. “Clark _Joseph_ Kent, when have we _ever_ taught you to act out of _fear_?”

“Never,” he mumbled.

“Just follow your heart, son,” said Pa. “It always leads you right. What’s it saying, now?”

Clark looked up with a pained expression. “That… I just have to make the best of what I’ve got. I tried to fight it. I lost that fight, so… I just have to pick up the pieces. And hope you two’re right about Bruce.”


	3. Cinders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I heard some of you wanted to know Dick's reaction? Well heeeere it is

 

Eventually, Clark did ask Lois to dinner.

Bruce was glad. Better to get it over with, rather than just sitting in the limbo of waiting. At least if Clark were seeing Lois, things were moving forward, and there could be answers. If he were right—if Clark were happy with Lois—it would be better to just know.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t, on some level, sort of hope that it was a disaster, but _mostly_ , he didn’t. Mostly he wanted the best for Clark, and deep down, he knew that the best wasn’t going to be with him. He’d been prepared for that.

But somehow, he hadn’t prepared for Dick kicking him while out on patrol and asking, “Hey, when are we seeing Big Blue again? It’s been a while.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said.

Dick—Robin—cocked his head to the side and scrunched his nose. “What do you _mean_ you don’t know? Call him up. We can do something tonight, maybe.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He has a date with Lois.”

Dick’s eyes widened as far as they could within his domino mask. “I… thought… I thought you two weren’t seeing other people,” he said.

“We weren’t,” Bruce answered, lifting up the binoculars to scan for their target. There had already been three unidentified assassins assassinated in Gotham in the past month, and this was their first lead. He wasn’t about to miss it. “It’s a first date.”

“So what changed? He’s okay with that, now?”

“No. We’re not together.”

The binoculars were suddenly wrenched from Bruce’s view, and now Dick stood precariously on the edge of the building, staring Bruce right in the face.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Bruce eyed the drop. It was far. Not that Dick wouldn’t recover perfectly if something happened. He had his grapple gun. But it still gave Bruce short breath when he insisted on standing like that, heels half-suspended in the air, teetering on the brink.

And Dick knew that, full well. He was doing it on purpose.

“Move away from the edge, Robin.”

“There’s no way he dumped you. He’d _never_.” Dick crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. 

It would’ve been almost cute, if it weren’t so obnoxiously none of his business.

“Don’t tell me _you_ broke up with _him_ ,” Dick growled. 

Bruce snatched Dick around the waist and dragged him off the ledge. “It’s none of your business.”

“You did!” Dick grabbed his hair and hung his head back. “ _Jeez_ , B, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bruce snapped. “I don’t have to defend my romantic choices to you.”

He turned and walked back to their stake-out position behind a billboard, determined not to miss their target because of some ridiculous adolescent fit.

“Yeah, you do,” Dick argued, chasing after him. “We were a _family_. You don’t get to just _end_ that.”

Bruce sighed. “We _weren’t_ a family.”

“To _me_ we were!” Dick’s toe jabbed into the soft crease in Batman’s armor just behind his knee. “You _ruined_ that. _Why_?”

Bruce said nothing.

“Because you were _happy_? Is that it? You can’t let yourself be happy, so you’re just going to… to sabotage the one thing that’s good? To throw it away?”

Bruce spun around at that and grabbed Dick’s arms. “Hey. _You_ ’re good. _You_ make me happy. I’m not ever throwing that away.”

Dick’s nostrils flared, the way they always did before he said something cruel and cutting. And sure enough, he spat, “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that anymore.”

Bruce dropped his grip as if he’d been handling hot coals. Worse. He _had_ handled hot coals, and they hadn’t burned so badly.

“Robin,” Bruce growled, “you don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? This is—you’ve done a lot of stupid shit, but if you love someone, you _hold on_ to them. You _marry_ them.”

“You’re a child. You don’t know—”

“My dad met my mom met three months before they got married. He had lots of reasons to worry that it wouldn’t work, but he didn’t. He asked her to marry him, and she said yes. And they were _happy_.”

Bruce ground his teeth. “That’s entirely different.”

“How?”

“I’m not—” There wasn’t a good way to complete that. _I’m not a twenty-year-old hopeless romantic_ wouldn’t land on Dick’s ears in any kind of convincing way. “I’m not _him_.”

“No, you sure the fuck aren’t.” Dick reached for his grapple gun and fired it at the building caddy-corner.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else. You can handle this alone, since apparently that’s how you like to do things.”

Dick pulled to retract and flew away.

“Robin!” Bruce started after him, but then below, a black van pulled up. Their target.

Bruce looked between his two targets, the black-suited criminals below and Robin swinging down the street, and sighed. Dick would need time to cool off, anyway. So he launched his own grapple across the way and descended onto the men below.

 

* * *

 

Dick found his way back to where he’d stashed his motorcycle and kicked it into gear. He rode and rode, until he’d gone all the way to Metropolis.

Clark’s apartment was in a dingy neighborhood, but no worse than any in Gotham’s inner city. And Dick had no problem stowing his bike away, climbing up to the balcony that Clark used as as a getaway, and picking the lock to let himself inside.

He pulled on pants and a jacket, just to be safe, and stuffed his mask into his pocket. And then he waited.

It was forty minutes before Clark opened his door. Though of course, when he did, he looked around with narrow eyes, asking, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Dick said.

Clark sighed and shut the door behind him. “ _Jeez_ Louise, Dick. What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“I have a phone, you know. And I… I was—.”

“On a date with Lois. I heard.”

“Right.” Clark put his hands on his hips, considering Dick, and then deflated. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat before saying, “Dick, you can’t just… stake out my living room. What if I’d brought Lois home?”

Dick laughed. “On the first date?”

“For a coffee! Or—”

“You would’ve gone to her place. Not yours.”

Clark folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, true, but then you’d have been waiting another two hours. You don’t need to sneak up on me like this. Just call and say you want to talk, and you know I’ll come—”

“It’s about Bruce.”

Clark sighed and dropped onto the couch, hanging his head in his hands. “Dick, I—”

“It was him. I know. But you have do something about it.”

“I can’t, Dick.” Clark looked up and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “You think I didn’t try?”

“Not hard enough.”

“Listen, Dick… he wants what’s best for us.”

“ _Bull_ -shit,” Dick swore, not even caring.

“If I have a chance to make things work with Lois, then—”

“You have a chance to make things work with _Bruce_.”

Clark shook his head. “I don’t know, Dick. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. I can’t make him. If he wanted to stay together, to try to make some kind of life of it, I’d like that, but—”

“ _He’d_ like that. You just have to give him time. This is—this what he does. You _know_ that. He pushes people away as a stupid defense, and you have to just… push back. Stand your ground. You can’t accept it and leave, or it just makes him think he’s right, that everyone who loves him will leave him.”

“ _I_ didn’t leave.”

“You _did_. He told you to, but you agreed. You have to come back. You have to fight for it. _Please_ , Clark.”

Clark’s eyebrows wrung together in pity. 

Dick _hated_ pity.

“I don’t see what _Lois_ has that Bruce doesn’t, anyway,” Dick spat.

“A Pulitzer?” Clark cracked a smile, trying a joke, but Dick was in no mood for joking. “She… I don’t know, Dick. She’s… spontaneous?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “ _That_ ’s what you want. Out of everything. Someone _spontaneous_.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Dick said, flaring his nostrils. “You mean that she’s someone you have to _save_ , and that makes you feel important.”

Clark’s face hardened. 

It was wrong, Dick knew, to get any satisfaction out of hitting a nerve, but a small twinge of victory still pinged in his heart when it happened.

“That’s not even _remotely_ fair,” Clark said, sitting up and leaning forward now. He raised his hand, pointing his finger and looking exactly like Pa Kent in the middle of a chiding. “Now, I know you’re _hurt_ , but—”

“Or is it about what she _doesn’t_ have?” Dick pressed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dick shrugged. “She doesn’t have _kids_. That’s a perk, for most people.”

Clark’s anger melted completely away, and before Dick could say anything else, he found himself caught in Clark’s broad arms.

“That’s not a _perk_ ,” he whispered past Dick’s ear. “Gosh, Dick, that’s not it. Don’t ever, _ever_ think I wanted to get away from you.”

Dick shrugged from inside the hug. 

“I liked our little family,” he mumbled back. “You an’ me,” he sniffled, “an’ Bruce an’ Alfred.”

“Me too, Dickie. Me too.” Clark backed away now, enough to look Dick in the eye. “We’re still family. I’m still Uncle Clark. That’s never gonna change. You and I—we were friends before, and we’ll stay friends after. Even if Bruce and I never get back together, I’m still his teammate. Still his friend, I think. I’ll fight for that. And you and me? No matter what.”

Dick bit his lip, trying to suss out if Clark was just being nice, or if he meant it but in that meaningless way where someone says they care but can’t make things work, or if that was a real promise.

“What about our team-ups?”

“Those don’t have to stop.”

Dick wiped away the tears that were threatening to expose how much of a mess he really was. “Promise?”

“Promise. The three of us, we’re a special team. Nothing can change that.”

“Okay.” Dick looked at the ground. “I just… don’t get why it had to end.”

“I don’t know, Dickie,” Clark sighed. “But I can’t force Bruce to accept something he doesn’t want. So… this is how it has to be. The best I can do is just… try my best to not be angry at him for it. Be patient. Can you do do that, too? For both of us?”

“Okay.” Dick’s knees wobbled. It had been a lot to process, all in a day. He breathed in, a long inhalation, like Bruce had taught him, and then out, slowly.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Clark suggested, “and I’ll order us some food. Put on a movie.”

Dick sat back into Clark’s ratty couch and nodded. “I should… tell Bruce. Where I am.”

“Yeah, you should.”

“I said some mean things to him.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “True things?”

“Yeah.”

Clark shrugged, picking up the phone. “Can’t blame you.”

He dialed Bruce’s number and waited. One ring, two, and then Bruce answered. Bruce himself, not Alfred. The voice was muffled, but Dick could make it out, just barely.

“Clark.”

“I have Dick here,” Clark said.

“He’s safe?”

“Of course.”

A pause. “Good.”

“I, uh, thought I’d give him some food. He can stay over tonight, if that’s best.”

“No,” said Bruce. “He should come home.”

“Right.”

“Food is good. He could use a few hours to cool his heels, if that’s not a problem. He’s… upset.” And then nothing, an awkward pause. “Can you put him on?”

Clark looked across to Dick, who nodded and held out his hand.

“Hi,” Dick mumbled.

“Don’t _ever_ run off like that again,” Bruce said, immediately stern. “Especially not out of town.”

“Kay.”

“Did you take the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t supposed to take it out of Gotham. The police—”

“I know.”

“A deep breath came over the line. “I… I understand that you were upset. For… a good reason. But you can’t drive it out there, and I don’t want you driving it back. It’s not safe.”

Dick nodded, and then remembered that he was on a voice line. “I know.”

“You’re not even old enough—”

“I _know_ , Bruce. I get it. I won’t do it again.”

“Okay. I’ll have Alfred drive me out there later, so I can bring it back,” Bruce said. “Clark says he’ll bring you home tonight.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dick looked over at Clark. His anger hadn’t completely faded away, but a small stupid part of him said that Bruce being forced to see Clark again would be good. Maybe it wouldn’t make Bruce change his mind, but it would make him feel bad about what he’d done. And at this point, Dick would settle for that. “We’re gonna watch a movie.”

“A movie.”

“Yeah. Is there a _problem_ with that?” Dick didn’t hide his tone of challenge. Let Bruce have a problem with it—Dick was armed to the teeth with retorts for that. But Bruce didn’t argue.

“No,” Bruce said. “No, that’s fine. When should I expect you back?”

“I don’t know,” Dick sulked. “Aren’t you downtown, anyway?”

“No. I’m home. I have been. I came home as soon as I saw that the bike left state lines.”

“Oh.” Dick swallowed, finally grasping how worried Bruce had been. But Bruce had deserved it. “You can… um. You can go back out. Alfred can let me in when I get in.”

It was shocking Bruce hadn’t already taken that upon himself, really. Now that he knew Dick was safe, and Clark would be stopping by the Manor soon, he’d probably make for the city as soon as he hung up the phone.

I have work to do here,” Bruce responded, finally. “I’ll see you when you get in.”

 

* * *

 

Dick wasn’t sure when over the course of the movie he’d fallen asleep, but he woke up to the cool night air hitting his face. He was in Clark’s arms, flying back to Gotham.

His stomach dropped at the thought of seeing Bruce again.

He’d said a lot of awful things. Bruce had deserved most of them, but not all. But he was tired, and if he tried to argue with Bruce in this state, he’d just lose. He already knew that.

The flight lulled him back to sleep, and he woke up again to the sound of hushed voices.

“Thank you for feeding him,” Bruce was saying. He fell quiet, for a second. “This should cover the takeout, I think?”

Clark laughed softly above Dick’s head. “This time and the next four.”

“Hn. Compensation for bringing him back, then.”

“That’s on the house,” said Clark.

A door opened, and Dick let his eyes flutter open long enough to see his room. He closed them back tight, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. It sounded friendly enough.

Maybe they’d forget all their stupid excuses and just get back together.

Clark placed him down on the bed, and the voices got softer, too far away for Dick to hear specific words anymore. Only tones. They stayed friendly, though stilted. Awkward. And then the voices stopped, and Bruce’s footsteps came closer.

Bruce’s fingers brushed Dick’s bangs away from his forehead, and a kiss was pressed in their place, just like Bruce would do when Dick first came home.

Dick kept his eyes shut and slowed his breathing, trying to make a convincing picture of being asleep. Bruce most likely knew better, but he did it anyway.

It was kind. Tender. But it came at the wrong time. A little fatherly affection wasn’t going to fix what Bruce had done. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce muttered, and then his presence moved away, no longer hovering over or close.

“I’m sorry, too,” Dick whispered to the far wall, with only a little sharpness in his tone. 

Bruce let out a little huff of air, something like relief, and said, “Good night, Dick. I’m glad you’re home.”

Dick watched the reflection in the window as Bruce walked toward the open door, shut it behind him, and left. Only after Bruce had taken several steps away did Dick snatch the pillow to his chest, bury his face in its soft down, and scream.


	4. Ash

 

“Master Bruce, it’s time.”

Bruce grunted out a half-acknowledgement and rolled over in bed. He hadn’t been asleep. But he hadn’t been fully awake, either.

The covers were rudely stripped away, leaving him unprotected from the sunlight and air conditioning.

He groped for the comfort of their weight, but Alfred had pulled them completely off the bed.

“It’s not even morning, Master Bruce. There’s no excuse for this behavior.”

“Nnngh,” Bruce answered.

“Yes, I’m aware, but you’ve already spent a good hour today on this pity party.”

“It’s not,” Bruce grumbled. “I was listening to music.”

“Ah, yes. The Cure. _Definitely_ not a pity party. What else, then? Having fond memories of your adolescence, are we?”

“Hrn.” Alfred knew full well that there was nothing _fond_ about the memories, though these albums had seen him through a lot. When he was young and the pain of everything was still raw, they were able to express the feelings he couldn’t. That hadn’t really changed.

“Precisely,” said Alfred, apparently satisfied. “Don’t think I don’t remember this routine from when Selina left. Either time. Or when Harvey—”

Bruce growled. “Not. Helping.”

“Then up you get. Curtain is in an hour, and the theater’s all the way downtown.”

Bruce lay on his side and blinked, looking at the vast emptiness of the bed. Clark hadn’t slept there in nearly two months, but the passage of time hadn’t changed anything.

That was where Clark would sleep, arms wrapped around Bruce in the few hours of the night when they both slept. Or where Clark would lay, half-propped up by pillows, drinking coffee and typing away at a story at some ungodly hour while Bruce hid his face in the shadows cast by Clark’s body.

No one was protecting him from the sun now.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred repeated.

“I’m _coming_ ,” he snapped.

The room fell silent as Alfred switched off the stereo system.

Bruce’s feet touched the floor, and Alfred held out an outfit for him. “Dress. We leave in ten minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce handed the usher the two tickets.

“Center, second row,” the bored usher said, hole-punching the two tickets. She looked up and stepped back, startled. “Ohmygod it _is_ you. You’re Bruce _Wayne_.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, holding out his hand for the tickets. “I am.”

“Wow. Someone said your son was in this, but—sorry. _Sorry_. Here you are,” she stammered, placing the tickets back in Bruce’s hand. “Center, second row.”

Bruce forced a smile as Alfred thanked the girl, and then he stepped around a barrier to see the seats she’d indicated.

_Clark_ was in one of them.

Bruce made a direct line for their seats, leaving Alfred behind. He didn’t sit. Instead, he loomed over Clark and cleared his throat.

Clark turned. “Hey, Bruce. How’s it going?”

Bruce didn’t dignify the inane question with a response. “What are you _doing_ here?” he demanded.

“Dick invited me. And Wally,” Clark said, nodding to his left.

Wally leaned around Clark and waved. “Hey there, Mister W.”

Clearly Bruce was slipping, if he hadn’t noticed Wally’s presence. Clark was too distracting. Too emotionally draining. “ _Wally_? Do your parents know you’re here?”

Wally shrugged. “Told them I was at a friend’s play.”

Clark’s attention shifted now, too. “Your town has a summer play?”

“No,” Wally laughed. “But they don’t know that. Dad thinks theater’s for sissies.”

“I’ll have you know,” Clark said, pressing his glasses up his nose, “that I was Smallville High’s leading actor—”

“You aren’t helping his case,” Bruce interrupted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred approaching. “Dick invited _friends_ ,” he bit.

“A pleasure to see you both,” Alfred said.

A _pleasure_. Bruce rolled his eyes.

“Alfred, why don’t you take Wally to get us some concessions?” Bruce suggested, handing Wally his card.

Wally’s eyes lit up, and then his mouth went lopsided. “I don’t think they take plastic, Mister Wayne.”

Bruce huffed, exchanged the card for a fifty, as Alfred said, “Come along then, Master Wallace. I have pocket money.”

Finally, Bruce was able to address Clark. “You shouldn’t _be_ here.”

“Dick said he had four comp tickets, and he wanted me here,” Clark explained. “What? You wanted me to tell him _no_?”

Bruce turned and sat, exhausted, in the seat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of it all. He didn’t want Clark to hurt Dick, but he didn’t want Clark _here_ , either. It would’ve been more tolerable if this were an occasion where Dick would actually _see_ Clark. A party, or something. As it was, _Bruce_ was the one who was going to have to see Clark. For hours. _Les Miserables_ was not exactly a _short_ play.

“He wanted you here,” Bruce repeated.

“Yes.”

“You _really_ don’t think this is about _us_ more than supporting his acting career?”

Clark’s eyes narrowed. “I _think_ he wants me to _be_ here for him, and that not everything is about _you_ , Bruce.”

“You’re not his—”

“Not _what_?” Clark challenged, bright eyes flashing over the top of his glasses.

“You’re not his father,” Bruce hissed. “You’re not his guardian. You’re not his _family_.”

Clark’s lip quivered, his fists clenched. “I’m _not_ his guardian, and I _never_ said I was,” he agreed through gritted teeth. “But in his eyes, I _am_ family. That’s not just a matter of blood or paperwork—not in his eyes. You should _know_ that.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but Clark held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Regardless, I made him a promise. Whatever happens between the two of us, that can’t affect Dick.”

Bruce gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t argue that. It was already affecting Dick. Too much.

He didn’t know how to fix it, how to help Dick. He couldn’t ask Clark to come back. All he could do was make room for Dick’s life to continue as uninterrupted as possible.

“And you know, even though you’ve been a total _ass_ ,” Clark whispered, “You two are family to me, too. And to my parents. Heck, Bruce, they’ve welcomed you like a son, over and over. Are you throwing _that_ away too?”

Bruce breathed in, out, in out. This was the way things had to be, and the only way to make that bearable was to get space from Clark. Permanently, if necessary. But to lose the Kents as well…

“Did you even _think_ about them?”

He _had_ thought about them. About how it would break _their_ hearts to hear that Bruce had broken their precious son’s. “I assumed they’d hate me, now.”

Clark shook his head. The corner of his mouth pulled up in disbelief. “Why would they _hate_ you, Bruce?’

“Because I—you must’ve told them…”

“I told them the _truth_ ,” Clark said, almost gently. Almost. “That you undervalue yourself so much that you couldn’t understand how happy I was. They don’t _hate_ you, Bruce. They’re _worried_ about you. So am I, frankly.”

Bruce swallowed, hard. He couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t handle it.

“I can’t _believe_ you—You know, we _were_ friends first,” Clark continued, more matter-of-fact. “Good friends. I don’t see why we can’t be friends again.”

Bruce shook his head, noticing how tight his neck felt. He’d been grinding his teeth, again. “I can’t—do that, Clark.”

“Why not? _You_ left _me_. _I’m_ the one who gets to be bitter. Not you.”

“I knew Lois would make you happy,” Bruce said, quietly, stoically. “That doesn’t mean I can _be_ there for it.”

Clark’s mouth opened, but it just formed over empty words. “I didn’t… realize you’d actually…”

“Maybe someday,” Bruce ceded, shifting forward. “Not today.”

Clark sat back in shock. Bruce glanced at the time. Still five minutes to curtain.

“And what about Dick?” Clark asked, sullen. “Am I not allowed to _see_ him?”

Bruce hung his head, looking down at the art on the program. Clark had to know full well he couldn’t do say no. He couldn’t hurt Dick anymore than he already had. Couldn’t make Dick lose anyone else, suffer any more loss.

“It’s hard enough on him, Bruce. Don’t make it harder.”

He nodded.

“I can stay?”

“You can stay.”

Clark let out a long breath, relieved. “You know he… he accused me of leaving to get away from him,” he said.

That hit Bruce like a brick. He looked up, the question in his eyes.

Clark nodded in affirmation. “I _told_ him that he was wrong. But I think it’s important that I make it clear that _he’s_ not the cause of this.” His tone made it clear who _was_ the cause, but he continued: “That I’m still Uncle Clark. Even if you and I—even if _you_ can’t be friends yet.”

“Right,” said Bruce. “That’s… a good idea.”

 

* * *

 

Finally, Alfred and Wally returned, laden with popcorn and drinks, the lights went down, and the play began. Dick was incredible, no surprise, though Bruce’s fingers fidgeted throughout. There was work to do. Bruce had finally found a name to tie to this assassin war—one Doctor Darrk—and he wanted answers, and if those answers came after taking some of his aggression out on skilled fanatics, so be it.

But Dick came first, so he watched the people of Gotham sing the _songs of angry men_. Of course, the director had cleverly filled the set with the skyline not of Paris, but Gotham, reminding Bruce all the more of his duties outside.

At the intermission, Alfred struck up a conversation with Clark, going on about the West End production, and Clark ate up every word. So Bruce stepped out, into the thick air of the Gotham summer evening. He looked up into the sky, half hoping to see Gordon’s signal shining onto the clouds. Dick would understand, if there were an emergency.

But no one was calling him. He wasn’t needed. Except here—Dick had been humming his songs for three weeks straight. And Bruce would be damned if he was going to let Clark be a better parent and see Dick’s big number while Bruce missed it.

So he went back in, though when he had, Alfred had stepped out, and the reshuffle and packed house meant that he was forced to scoot in and sit next to Clark.

It was fine. He was an adult.

That didn’t make listening to the plaintive “On My Own” this close to Clark any better. _Pretending he’s beside me_. Bruce stiffened his posture and tried to be as interested in the actress’s performance as possible. _Without me, his world would go on turning._ Bruce’s attention turned to his folded hands, willing himself to ignore Clark’s presence. The warmth of sunlight, the smell of the wind.

Maybe he had made a mistake. It used to be so natural, so easy, to be next to Clark like this. And as long as he could avoid Clark, he had been able to keep him out of sight, out of mind. At least for the most part. But _this?_ This should have been something they did together. And they were both here, but not together. It was wrong.

Dick undoubtedly knew that full well. He could’ve given Clark a ticket for another day. Switched tickets with another cast member, so that Bruce wouldn’t have to sit with Clark. It’s not like Dick was careless or unable to take that into account. This had all been on purpose, intentional. Bruce would almost have been proud, if it weren’t so meddlesome.

Though then Dick stepped up and revealed Javert, and Bruce couldn’t stay irritated with him.

_“Good even’, dear Inspector, lovely evening, my dear,”_ Dick began singing. He’d been singing it over and over, but it was different here. Dick was in his element, the lights on him, all eyes on him. “ _So you better run for cover when the pup grows up!”_

Bruce was no expert in theater, but Dick was stealing the show. It was good he hadn’t left. Hadn’t missed this.

That was all the more clear as the second attack began, with Dick leading the company in a chorus of “Do You Hear the People Sing?” And then Dick pushed the other soldiers out of the way.

“ _You need someone quicker, and I volunteer!_ ” he sang.

If only it weren’t so realistic. If only that weren’t so _Dick_. The smoke machines blew, imitating the Gotham fog.

“ _Come back, Gavroche, don’t you dare! Someone pull him down at once!”_

How often Bruce had said that. Heard that.

“ _Look at me, I'm almost there!_ ”

A shot rang out, and Bruce felt his stomach leap. He heard gunfire, sure, almost every night. But in his cowl, in a fight, prepared, it was different. Not so sudden.

“ _Gavroche, come back!”_

And that’s when Dick started singing, gathering ammunition on his knees. “ _Little people know, when little people fight,_ ” he sang, “ _we may look easy pickings, but we’ve got some bite!_ ”

Another shot rang, and Dick let out a pained gasp, cutting right into Bruce’s heart.

He kept singing, sounding weaker now. Wounded. “ _So never kick a dog, because he’s just a pup_ —”

Another shot, and Dick stumbled, as if hit in the shoulder. Bruce’s grip tightened around the arms of his chair and his jaw clenched. If only it weren’t so realistic. He felt Clark’s eyes glance over him, checking on him.

“ _We’ll fight like twenty armies, and we won’t—give—up!_ ”

Dick— _not Dick, Gavroche_ —threw the ammunition to the rebels behind him, and slowly rose, facing his enemy, cheated out so you could see the defiance in his eyes, the curl of his lip.

“ _So you better run for cover—_ ” he sang, suddenly sounding so much older, fiercer. When had that happened? “— _When the pup—grows—”_

_BANG._

Dick’s eyes opened wide and he fell, instantly limp, to the ground.

Bruce felt himself starting forward. It was just a play. He knew that. But that was Dick.

It was too realistic. The smoke. The smell of gunpowder and ash. The twisted limbs of Dick’s body splayed across the ground.

Clark’s hand closed around his as the trumpet sounded and other actors’ cries sounded across the stage.

For a split second, everything felt right, normal. Better. And then Bruce remembered, and his eyes fell on Clark’s hand. The warmth of it was welcome, but it was everything he wanted and everything he couldn’t have. So he squeezed his eyes shut, yanking his own hand out of Clark’s.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he whispered under the symphony swell.

Clark withdrew his hand, but his eyes lingered on Bruce. Concerned.

Bruce flashed a warning glare, and Clark looked back at the stage.

On his other side, Wally sat, mouth agape. He turned and mouthed, “ _He’s good._ ”

Bruce nodded in agreement, and then excused himself for the restroom.

The awful weight of the knowledge of the Multiverse dragged at him, pulling him into a space he thought he’d freed himself from. Was there an earth where Dick died? Shot in the Gotham streets, falling over like that?

The idea of losing Dick on top of losing Clark was too much, and Bruce’s mind refused to bear anymore. He let his head lean back on the cold bathroom wall and willed it to be blank. Just his breath. In and out. And then he focused on the facts.

He was in the men’s room at the Kane Community Theater.

He was Bruce Wayne. He was an orphan. He was Batman. He was Dick’s guardian.

He was a member of the Justice League.

He was in love with Clark Kent.

And he had lost him. He had thrown one of the best things in his life away.

That was real. Not a hypothetical.

But he was still Dick’s guardian, and he couldn’t let Dick come out for the curtain call and not see him there. So eventually, he made his way back, just in time for the finale, and after the show, he waited in awkward silence with Alfred and Clark and Wally.

“Wally,” Bruce started, causing Wally to jump half a foot into the air in surprise. “Did you want to stay over after the play?”

Wally grinned. “I— _yeah_ , that’d be _amazing_. Is that… okay?”

“Sure. We’ll get ice cream around the the corner, and then Alfred can bring you two back to the Manor.”

Alfred arched an eyebrow. “Just the boys, Master Bruce?”

Bruce nodded. He needed the space. And Dick needed the space from him. “I’ll go out on my own tonight. You can keep an eye on them?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll be good,” Wally promised.

Clark nudged Bruce and nodded to the door. “He’s coming.”

Sure enough, Dick bounded out of the door, scanning the crowd for them. It didn’t take him long to spot them—Bruce and Clark were each tall enough, and Wally’s flame-red hair stood out in most crowds. Dick’s soot-and-ash-smudged face broke into a grin as he ran over.

“You all came!”

“Saw the whole thing this time,” Clark said.

“Yo, you were so _good_ ,” Wally said, punching Dick’s arm. “Though that was depressing. Like. Really depressing.”

“I mean, it _is_ called _The Miserable Ones_ ,” Dick said with a shrug. “What did you think, Alfie?”

“Even better on stage,” Alfred appraised, handing over a bouquet of blue, white, and red flowers. “You were stellar.”

Dick’s eyes slid over to Bruce, who said, “Very impressive.”

Dick smiled wide again. “You think so?”

Bruce nodded.

“And Br—Mister Wayne said I could stay over!” Wally said. “I mean, if you want. I can go back.”

Wally thumbed toward the door and started to lean away, but Dick threw himself in his direction, grabbing his arm and tugging it down.

“What? No! Stay!” He slowly looked at Bruce, wary. That was _your_ idea?”

“Mm. Reward for all your hard work.”

Dick squinted in disbelief, and Bruce sighed.

“There’s no _catch,_ chum. I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am.” Dick looked back at Wally and brightened. “I am,” he repeated, smiling again. “Thanks, B. We’ll won’t get into any trouble.”

“That’s what I said,” Wally noted.

“And thanks again for coming, Clark,” Dick said, stretching his arms around Clark and squeezing. “Thanks so, _so_ much.”

“Of course, Dickie,” said Clark, ruffling Dick’s hair. He looked over Dick’s head to catch Bruce’s eye in a _told you so_ way that made Bruce’s blood boil. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“Come on,” Bruce said, his voice sharper than he intended. “It’s getting late.”


	5. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take a break from Bruce this chapter to spend some time with Dick and Wally and then Lois and Clark. <3 If you don't like Clois... well. Haters to the left, I guess. And everyone likes Wally. RIGHT?
> 
> As usual, I've put together a playlist that has been my soundtrack while working on this piece. It started as just Clark's playlist, since Bruce's ordinary playlist is mopey enough to work anyway, but then it's developed into a joint one for the fic. As a second song from it makes an appearance in this chapter, it seemed appropriate to link. [So here it is: songs for when your superboyfriend superbreaks up with you.](https://open.spotify.com/user/cutsvh7amk79ohjgdx798fp9n/playlist/66jHc9Z8lkyVzkoeCXqNia?si=SlTEDqBWSUqoCR6rgfmMrw) I hope you enjoy! At the very least, listen to Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt".

 

Wally tossed a ball in the air and caught it, again and again. “Sad girl was hot,” he remarked.

“Who?”

“You know. In your play. Curly hair.”

Dick laughed. “Oh. Eponine?”

“Yeah, her.”

“That’s Rachel,” he said. “She’s from my new school.”

“The fancy one?”

“Yeah,” said Dick, rolling his eyes. Bruce had insisted switching to private school would be best. More security. More room to negotiate periods of absence for Dick. That’s what Bruce _said_ , at least. Dick was still pretty sure it was mostly just him being a snob. “She was my tour guide. I told her that I did theater, and she got excited and gave me her screen name.”

Wally’s interest piqued. “Really? You haven’t even _mentioned_ her.”

“Eh.” Dick shrugged. “She’s just a school friend. But she’s the one who got me to audition.”

“Huh. You sure she’s _just_ a school friend?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re crazy, dude. She _clearly_ likes you.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “It’s not like it could be anything _real_.”

Wally scoffed. “You’re fourteen. What the hell is _real_?”

“Like the _right_ _person_ , you know? I dunno. I don’t know anything anymore.” 

Dick looked at his feet, curling his toes in his socks. He used to think _real_ was someone you could trust completely, a best friend, but _more_. Someone at school—someone he couldn’t confide fully in, share his full identity with—could never be that. Barry had finally told his now-wife about being the Flash, but it wasn’t the same. Even a trustworthy civilian wouldn’t be the same as someone who _understood_ the kind of life he led. 

But maybe hero couples couldn’t work either. Dinah and Ollie were always on and off, according to Roy.

If Bruce and Clark couldn’t even make things work, who could? 

“Dude?”

Wally was right. He was fourteen. He didn’t need to worry about the perfect person. This was stupid. 

“You okay?”

Dick nodded, but it was a weak nod. Unconvincing. Some actor he was.

Wally caught the ball a last time and set it down. “This breakup’s got you really fucked up, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Hey—at least you won’t walk in on them again.”

Dick could barely muster the energy to smile. “Yeah. At least,” he echoed.

“Clark still came to your play,” Wally noted, trying a different approach.

That was true. Clark had promised he would still be Uncle Clark. Still his friend. But how long would _that_ last? 

“ _Today_ he did,” he said, sullenly. “Who knows, once he marries stupid _Lois_ and has his own kids, he won’t have time for me.”

“Pfff,” Wally scoffed. “He’s _Superman_. He’ll make time.”

Dick shook his head, ignoring Wally’s reply. “I thought,” he started, “maybe if he was there… maybe Bruce would realize how dumb this is. But he was _cold_ to Clark. I don’t even know if they’re gonna be friends again. It just… it really _sucks_.”

“Yeah.”

“Bruce was _finally_ kinda happy,” Dick continued, swinging his legs around to sit up on the edge of the bed. “And now he’s worse than he was when Selina left. And you know—he’s _such_ a pain in the ass like this. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t want to do _anything_ fun. He spends most of his time in Gotham, and when he’s home, he just obsesses over cases in the Cave or he sits in his room with the door closed playing a sad bastard cover of Nine Inch Nails. You’d think _he_ was fourteen and _I_ was twenty-nine.”

“Wait. Really?”

Dick nodded. “You know the song?”

Wally shook his head and shrugged all at once.

“It goes, like…” Dick inhaled and closed his eyes, remembering the words. He looked up, out the window past Wally, and sang, at least an octave higher than Johnny Cash’s rendition. “ _What have I become, my sweetest friend?”_ He closed his eyes and continued: “ _Everyone I know goes away in the end._ ”

Dick opened his eyes to see Wally grimace, and then he stood up, mustering the _pathos_ he’d just poured into his theatrical performance.

“ _And you could have it all–my empire of dirt_ ,” he sang, approaching Wally while staring him down. “ _I will let you down. I will make you… hurt_.” He stopped singing, but kept Wally fixed in his gaze.

Wally grimaced again, leaning back. “Yi-ikes.”

Dick nodded. “I hear it coming from there every day, I swear.”

Wally shook his head and then suddenly pushed away from the wall, animatedly circling Dick.

“You know what you need?”

“What?”

“The Titans.”

“The Teen Titans? Really? What would we even do?”

Wally shrugged. “There’ve gotta be bad guys out there that we can take on.”

Dick laughed, leaning against the wall where Wally had been, while Wally paced.

“What? We were there for each other, before. You didn’t have Bruce or Clark then, either. But you had us.”

“We had a mission,” Dick noted.

“Sure, but whatever. We don’t need to fight. We can just hang out. Mission: hang out with Dick. Get pizza. Have a party.”

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously. Call Donna. I can call Roy. And… well, I don’t know _how_ to contact Garth. Do _you_ know?”

“Ask a fish to deliver a message?”

Wally snorted. 

“It’s okay—I don’t think I should go anywhere,” Dick said, crossing back to his bed. “Bruce… needs me _here_ , I think.”

“If you say so,” Wally said. He flopped down onto the foot of Dick’s bed and looked over, a mix of doubt and concern. “I just think you could use some company.”

“Pretty sure that’s why you’re here, idiot.” Dick tossed a throw pillow at Wally’s face, though Wally reached out and snatched it faster than Dick ever could see. “Hey—you’re getting faster.”

“What? Nah. Same speed. Barry and I test it now and then.”

“Maybe not your top speed,” Dick acknowledged. “But your reflexes. That’s good.”

Wally grinned.

“I can still kick your ass at Double Dash, though.”

The grin vanished. “You have _never_ kicked my ass, you filthy liar. Last time you won because we were a _team_.”

“Nah, I _definitely_ kicked your ass _last_ time. You’ve probably blocked it out, because it was so embarrassing. Trauma’ll do that.”

“Wait, you mean the time when I had to get up to get the pizza delivery? That doesn’t count!”

“Uh, yes it does. You ordered pizza three times in one night. That’s on you.”

“Rematch. _Now_. Unless you need to sit around and mope some more, Batman Junior.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You’re on.”

In an instant, Wally was up and standing at the door. “Better get ready to see some blue sparks fly, bird-boy.”

 

* * *

 

“If you’re half as good as last week,” Clark said, “you’ll leave them all in tears.”

“Thanks, Clark,” Dick’s voice said through the phone. “Sorry we didn’t get to do anything after.”

“Well, wouldn’t’ve wanted to impose on Wally’s time with you. Maybe we can grab some pie next week. I’ll come to Gotham.”

“Yeah. That’d be good. Okay, well—I gotta go. Break’s over.”

“All right, Dickie,” Clark said, leaning on the iron balcony. “Break a leg!”

Clark looked at the phone to see the call marked as ended, but his eyes lingered there for a second. Dick was trying. That was more than he could say for Bruce, but something still ached about it. They’d never needed to _try_ to get along. It had always been easy, automatic. But it was all too easy to hear the forced cheerfulness in Dick’s voice. Was he still angry with Clark for giving up? Or just awkwardly caught in the middle, upset with Bruce but still loyal through and through?

“Everything okay?” Lois asked, standing in the doorway in small shorts and an oversized, faded Superman tee.

“You changed,” he noted. She’d been in work clothes before, during dinner and over the drinks they’d shared in her living room.

“I did _say_ I was changing.”

“Uh huh, Into something more comfortable,” he recalled, with a laugh.

“I hope you didn’t expect something lacy,” she said. “When I said _comfortable_ , I meant comfortable.”

“No, you’re perfect,” he said, walking up and taking her around the waist.

“You aren’t offended, are you?” She nodded down to the shirt. “I thought maybe it was in poor taste, but nothing else is clean.”

“Poor taste?”

“I mean, wearing an ex’s swag on a date… yeah.”

Clark shook his head. “Lois, _I_ just interrupted our date to take a call from my ex’s kid. So I don’t think I have grounds to be offended.”

“Fair. How _is_ the twerp?”

“He’s _not_ a twerp.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “He’s sharp and charming and gutsy and I get why you wish he were your kid. But as long as he’s on this crusade to get you to dump me and go back to Bruce, he’s a twerp.”

“It’s not a _crusade_ ,” Clark argued.

“He emailed you last week with an enumerated list of all of Bruce’s most redeeming qualities.”

“Okay, yeah.” Clark stepped back. “He _did_ do that. But… he just doesn’t want me to _hate_ Bruce, that’s all. He wants to make sure I remember that Bruce is, you know. A _good_ person. Selfless, under it all. You wouldn’t think it, but he sees the best in people and spends so much time trying put others first.”

“Jesus, Clark,” Lois said, putting her hands on her hips. “Do you _hear_ yourself?”

Clark turned, quizzical. “Pardon?”

“The way you talk about Bruce… Listen, if you’re still in love with him, go back to him.”

“But—”

“I’m serious,” she said. “I don’t want to date someone who’s in love with someone else. And you and I—we’ll still be friends. No matter what. I won’t hold it against you. Just don’t string me along or put me in the middle of something.”

And that’s what made it so hard. He _could_ go back to Bruce. Stay friends with Lois. Have them both in his life.

Or he could stay with Lois and lose Bruce entirely.

But the fact that Bruce was the one making that ultimatum—even if he didn’t call it that—and Lois was standing here being so calm and gracious… well. It didn’t exactly make Clark want to run back into Bruce’s arms, that was for sure. Bruce had created this situation, and Clark hadn’t entirely forgiven him for that.

“I can share you,” she said. “Or… maybe the three of us—”

“I don’t—no.” Clark felt heat rise in his cheeks. “ _No_.”

Lois shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Clark laughed, but the laughter faded and his smile with it.

“That’s not it,” he said, at last. “He was my best friend, before we were dating. I miss _that_. That’s all.”

Lois smiled, laughed. “Before you were dating?”

Clark nodded.

“Okay. I’m a _little_ offended that you’d call a semi-insufferable billionaire from _Gotham_ your _best friend_ when I’m standing right here. You saw him, what? Once a _month_ before you started dating?”

Clark opened his mouth to answer, closed it. How the hell could he explain himself?

But that was the thing that Bruce didn’t understand. That Lois was incredible. Amazing. 

But she only knew little pieces of his life. She didn’t—couldn’t—know the full picture.

Or could she? She was right, they were practically the best of friends, and had been for _years_. And heck, she’d been to the Fortress. She just didn’t know that the guy who brought her to the Fortress and the guy she liked to steal lo mein from were the same.

He leaned his elbows on the balcony, looked out at Metropolis glittering in the night. 

If he told her, he could never take it back.

But if he didn’t, there was no future for them. And if there was no future for them, what was he doing here? Why _wasn’t_ he with Bruce?

“Lois…”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “Ye-es?”

Clark had imagined telling her this in a thousand different ways. But now that he was here, he didn’t have the words. So he took off his glasses, straightened his posture, and loosened his tie.

“Wait,” she said. She eyed him, sizing him up, and then kissed him. It was real, passionate, no holds barred. The kind of kiss she gave Superman, not her coworker-and-friend that she’d been on a handful of dates with.

Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck, nails digging in. Or trying to. _That_ wasn’t passion. She was _testing_ him. Looking for clues, corroboration, confirmation.

Lois finally broke the kiss and stepped back, squinting at Clark. She reached up, smoothed back his hair, uncurled one cowlick front and center.

“You…”

He looked down in brief embarrassment, crossed his arms, and then looked back up, confident, smiling. Completely himself.

“You fucking _bastard_ ,” she spat through a wide grin, punching her hand into his chest on the last word. He recoiled, instinctively, but she pointed a sharp finger and said, “ _No_. Don’t act like that hurt, you _liar_.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoping that covered everything. Every lie, every obfuscation, every absurdly elaborate scheme he’d come up with to keep her from finding out the truth—or from confirming her all-too-frequent suspicions of it.

“You’re sorry, huh?”

He nodded. “ _Really_ sorry.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“I want to hear you _say_ it. That you’re _him_. That I’m not crazy. That I’m not imagining this.”

“I’m Superman, Lois.”

She laughed and jumped forward, taking his face in her hands and standing on her tip-toes to kiss him again.

“You _fucking._ _Bastard_ ,” she repeated. “Is your name even really Clark? Are you even _from_ Smallville, Smallville? I thought you had to be making it up, but I did Google it. It’s a real place.”

“Of course it’s a real place! Lois, you’ve—you’ve met my parents!”

Lois squinted. “But you’re from Krypton. Your parents are dead.”

“ _Thanks_ , Lo.”

“Oh, come on. I can’t process this _and_ manage your feelings.”

“My Kryptonian parents are dead,” Clark confirmed. “But I _was_ raised here. In America. In Kansas. By Martha and Jonathan Kent. They named me Clark, after my mom’s maiden name. It’s not a… not an alias. That’s me.”

She nodded, slowly. “Does Jimmy know?”

“No, of course not!”

“Well _that’s_ something, at least. Does _Bruce_?” Her eyes went wide. “Wait.”

Damn. He knew she would get there. She was too smart not to. Not everyone would jump from Clark-as-Superman to Bruce-as-Batman, but Lois? She’d get there. She’d seen enough glimpses of the real Bruce. He just didn’t think it would take less than ten minutes. But she of course it had. She was the best reporter he’d ever met.

God, he _did_ love her. And he _was_ happy.

Bruce had been right. Bruce… always was. He just had the most asinine way of going about being right.

“He’s…” She shook her head. “Is he like _you_?”

“He’s not… Kryptonian.”

Lois laughed. “Yeah, that’s _totally_ what I meant. Come on, Clark. We both know you wouldn’t date the vapid attention-seeking doofus that Bruce pretends to be. Not for a _year_.”

Clark shifted awkwardly. He couldn’t tell her. Bruce would never speak to him again. But she already knew.

“And Bruce’s money… it explains a lot.”

“Lois—”

“And you going on earlier about how _good_ of a person he is. And being _best friends_. I’m sorry, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were never _best_ friends. But _Superman_ was friends with Ba—”

He put two fingers to her lips.

“Lois. Just let this… _theory_ … go.”

She took his hand and pulled it down, away from her face. “I get it,” she said, cautiously. “You can’t tell me. But… if I’m right, you can nod.”

“I’m not a _source_ , Lois,” he said, recognizing the tactic all too well. Protect the source. Let them deny saying anything. Confirming, after all, isn’t divulging.

“Yes, you _are_! You _could_ be.”

“You _can’t_ print it. You can’t—you can’t say _anything_ to _anyone_. Not _ever_.”

“Of course not,” she said, resigned. She inhaled, long and slow, and then blew the air back out through full cheeks. “Of course not. The best story I’ve ever run into, and I can’t say a goddamn word. And the thing is, I won’t! You know I won’t. I care about you too much.”

Clark nodded. “I know,” he said.

“You and Bruce. I… _Fuck_. That makes _a lot_ more sense, now.”

“Did it not before?”

Lois shrugged. “I mean, I understood the appeal. On both sides. It was just an odd combo. It makes a lot more sense if…” She tilted her head to the side, lost in thought. “Well. It fits. You two.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it… are you _sure_ I’m not the only thing keeping you from him? I don’t want to mess up some super-romance—”

“It’s not you,” he assured her. “He just wants the best for me. And… and that _is_ you.”

Lois bit her lip, furrowed her brow. “You don’t want to try to make it work? I can dump you. Make a big show of it so you can be in need of a shoulder to cry on.”

“That’s… _generous_ ,” Clark said, “but… yes. I’m sure.” The word caught a little in his throat, but he _was_ sure. They hadn’t been on enough dates for him to throw words like _love_ around, but that’s what it was. He was in love with Lois. He had no doubts about that. “I’m with you. I love you. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“You lo—you _love_ me?”

Clark nodded.

Lois’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. “I…” She looked down and laughed. “It’s not that I _don’t_ love you. But we’ve only dated a month—”

“You’ve dated me as _Clark_ for a month. Or do you not count all those times you confessed your love for Superman?”

Lois turned bright red. “Don’t,” she warned.

“I never wanted to deceive you.”

“You made me look like a _fool_. Like I was _crazy_. God, Clark, how much energy did you spend on covering that up?”

He shifted his weight, looking down at his feet. “It was for your safety,” he said. “You know that, right?”

She sighed, and he looked up.

“It’s a bullshit excuse,” she said, “but the past is in the past. If we’re doing this—just be honest with me now.”

“I am. That’s why I needed to tell you.” Honesty was easier than the lies, the ruses, the constant acting.

“Good. Then tonight, we start over. I want to know the _real_ you. I’ve fallen for Superman and for the bumbling country-boy act. Show me who you _really_ are.”

She reached for another kiss, but this one lingered, pulling him down, beckoning for more.

He threaded his fingers through her thick black hair and then wrapped his arm around her, lifting her up. He let off the ground, just enough to feel the freedom under his feet.

“Thank you,” she said, softer, now, retreating as he placed her back on the ground. She steadied herself, placing a hand on his chest. “For telling me, I mean. For trusting me. I can’t imagine Bruce wanted you to do that.”

Clark nodded, taking her hands in his. “It’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He always is. He’s resilient.”

“But will _you_ be okay?”

“As long as I have you,” he said, touching his forehead to hers. 

“God, Smallville,” she said through a smile, “you’re corny as hell. Never change, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Clark tried to call Bruce that night.

He didn’t answer.

So he tried to call in the morning.Alfred took a message—as if Clark couldn’t hear Bruce in the room, telling Alfred he wasn’t in—but the call wasn’t returned.

He tried to call the office. Nothing.

He tried summoning Batman to the Hall of Justice. When Bruce didn’t respond to _that_ , Clark’s patience wore out. How did Bruce know it wasn’t an emergency?

And so Clark went to Gotham himself.

He showed up at the Manor first, ringing the call button on the giant gate that led into the Wayne estate.

“Mister Kent,” came Alfred’s voice. “I _did_ take your message.”

“It’s _urgent_ , Alfred.”

There was a pause, and then Alfred said, “Then tell me. I’ll get word to him.”

“I’m sorry, but—no. I have to talk to him myself.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. I’m under _rather_ strict orders.”

Clark leaned his head against the cool brick. He was _trying_ to help Bruce. And Bruce was making it impossible.

“That said,” Alfred added over the line, “I’m sure you could find him tonight. He has an… _engagement_ downtown, I believe.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

It was something. Bruce would hate him for it, but Bruce was probably going to hate him by the end of the conversation regardless. So Clark would take his chances.


	6. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you following daily, sorry about the hiatus last night! After Aquaman, I was dead exhausted and couldn't even stay awake enough to edit and post. Chapter 6 is here now, though! And 7 and 8 should be out Saturday and Sunday.

 

Bruce closed his eyes and tried to muster patience for Dick’s thirty-seventh terrible joke of the night. He was _trying_ to help, Bruce knew that. It didn’t stop it from being annoying.

But then something disturbed the air behind them, and Dick’s voice felt silent in the middle of a line. Bruce spun, batarangs already in hand by the time he faced the intruder. Darrk’s ninja-assassins were quiet, sneaky, but Bruce wouldn’t be caught off-guard.

But it wasn’t a ninja-assassin.

It was Clark.

Full on in his cape and hovering five feet above the roof where they stood, arms folded, looking like a pompous ass.

Bruce _missed_ him. But not quite enough to look past the audacity of Clark to show up in Gotham, during night, interrupting Bruce’s work.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce growled. “We’re in the middle of—”

“The cartel on the docks?” Clark asked, trying and failing to hide a smug smile. “They’re bundled up for you. Not going anywhere, I don’t think.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you _dare_ operate in _my city_.”

That had _always_ been a rule between them. As friends, as lovers. Clark knew better. And now Clark was undermining _everything_.

“We need to talk,” Clark answered, emphatically ignoring the warning. Stormy winds whipped his cape as he stayed completely still in the air. “I tried more reasonable methods, but if this is the only time I can catch you, then I won’t apologize for it.”

Bruce tried to gather himself and cool his anger long enough tell Dick to watch the scene for five minutes.

“We should go somewhere more private,” Clark suggested, holding out a hand. As if Bruce was just going to _fly_ somewhere with him.

“We’ll talk here or not at all,” Bruce said.

“Fine,” said Clark, touching down on the roof. “Have it your way.”

“So. Talk.”

Clark closed his eyes tight, took a deep breath, and said: “Things with… our friend from Metropolis… they’re going well.”

“ _That’s_ urgent news?”

Clark ignored the question. “And I—I need to tell her who I am.”

That wasn’t urgent, either. Which meant Clark was _lying_. Bruce’s jaw clenched tight. “You mean you _already_ told her.”

“How’d you—“

“I know you,” Bruce answered, not interested in distracting from the major issue at hand. He was angry on a dozen different levels. Clark being here. Clark thinking he could lie like that, to Bruce, of all people. Clark sharing his identity with someone smart enough to connect the two of them. Clark and Lois _going well_. But instead he just said, “That was fast.”

“ _You_ wanted to test this out,” Clark argued. “That means I try to make it work. I can’t judge a relationship with someone who only knows half of my identity.”

“Now she knows both of ours. _All_ of ours. And you said you saw Robin like _family_ —”

“I do.”

“Clearly _not_. You told a high-profile target and spitfire reporter your identity. And mine. And _his_.”

“She’s not—”

“What if it _does_ go sour? If she blames me or Robin in some way?”

“She’d _never_ do that,” said Clark.

Defending her. Bruce tried to not hate it.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “If you’re wrong, that could be our death sentence.”

Clark shook his head. “I’d never let that happen.”

Of course he thought that way. Like he could ruin everything and then protect them. And then be the hero. Bruce had no interest in that kind of protection.

“I think it’s time you went back to Metropolis.” Bruce turned and started back toward Dick.

“Don’t be a _child_ ,” Clark scolded, but Bruce spun on him.

“You _knew_ that I’d say no. You decided what you wanted, and you did it.”

“Well, _that_ sounds familiar,” Clark said, losing any high ground of maturity.

Bruce stepped close now, out of Dick’s range of hearing. “This isn’t about feelings. This is about the safety of my family. You’ve crossed a line, Superman. Now get _out_ of Gotham, or I’ll see you out myself.”

Clark crossed his arms again and looked Bruce over, leaving his chin raised high. He didn’t need to say, _I’d like to see you try_.

And Bruce didn’t need to say, _You know I have Kryptonite and know exactly how to bring you down._ His fingers just grazed the edges of his belt, and Clark raised a hand.

“I’m leaving,” Clark said, shaking his head. “Spare me the theatrics.”

And then he was gone.

Bruce only had enough time to inhale and exhale once before he heard Dick saying his name.

“Batman?” Dick stepped closer, approaching from his four o’clock. “What happened?”

Bruce shook his head. “He’s really gone. For good, this time.”

Dick slouched back against a brick chimney. “Oh,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Robin.”

“Yeah. I _know_.”

Bruce turned to look at his sidekick and ward. Dick’s eyes were cast down, his green-gloved arms folded across his red chest.

“You need to stop trying to get us back together.”

“I haven’t—”

“It’s okay,” Bruce interrupted. “I… understand why. I know what he means to you.”

“Not just to _me_ ,” Dick said.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“You were _happy_. Don’t lie. You were.”

“I—” Bruce sighed. “I was. But then I wasn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce snapped. “But you need to let him be with Lois. If they break up… they break up. But it can’t be our doing.”

“Why _not_?”

Bruce shot a stern look at Dick. “For one, it would be wrong. But she knows our identities. I don’t want to give her any reason to expose that.”

Dick’s eyes went wide. “He _told_ her?”

Bruce nodded once, and Dick turned, leaning his elbow on the chimney and facing out at the street and the warehouses and docks below.

“They must be serious.”

“Hn,” Bruce agreed.

“So it’s… it’s over.”

“Yes.”

Dick nodded and fell into silence.

“Let’s go home, Robin,” Bruce said.

Dick looked over, a question in his face.

“We’ll pay the perps a visit. Check the scene. And then turn in.”

Dick nodded, still silent, and crossed over to Bruce.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They rode back in silence, and then Dick had gone upstairs without another word. He wasn’t sure what to say, really. Every day was a battle of trying to avoid a fight with Bruce over what had happened. After the news they’d just heard, Dick wasn’t sure he had the energy anymore. He didn’t want to yell at Bruce and say something else he’d regret. Not when Bruce was struggling so much himself.

So Dick closed the door to his room, changed, fell onto his bed, and tried to think about anything else while he lay there in the darkness. After that proved impossible, he got out his laptop and messaged Wally and Donna. Talking to them helped, a little. But then a knock came on his door.

Dick side-eyed the door. It was late. Too late for a visit. But he wasn’t asleep, and Bruce would know that. Even in the dark, the blue light of the computer screen had to be visible from the crack in the door.

“Come in,” Dick said, closing his computer and tossing to the side.

Bruce hesitantly opened the door and then stepped inside. Whatever he was going to say was interrupted as he looked at Dick’s shirt.

“Why are you wearing that?”

Dick looked down at the winding river of bright yellow. “The Superman shirt?”

“Yes. The _Superman_ shirt.”

“I like it. It’s my favorite shirt.”

Bruce furrowed his brow.

“It hasn’t _changed_ just because you two broke up.”

“Hn.”

Dick looked side to side, waiting for Bruce to say something. “Can I… _help_ you with something?”

Bruce sat down on Dick’s bed in silence. He was trying. Dick could tell. But it wasn’t easy for him, wasn’t natural.

“You’re still angry,” he said at last.

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Maybe the _real_ reason why you did this?”

“I know you think this is all my fault,” Bruce said, trying his best to reach out. To be honest. “But it’s more complicated than that.”

Dick huffed, blowing a black lock away from his forehead.

“It was _supposed_ to be a break. He was _supposed_ to come back.”

Dick rolled his eyes, keeping his head turned away. No one had said anything about a _break_ before. “ _Real_ -ly.”

Bruce ground his teeth. “I thought… It seemed right to give him the chance. To not hold him back.”

Dick looked back at Bruce now. “The saying is _if you love it, set it free_ , not _if you love it, throw it out the door and kick it in the teeth._ ”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Dick’s brow furrowed in frustration.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“ _Try_ me.”

Bruce hesitated. He couldn’t burden Dick with the same knowledge that had nearly ruined him. But Dick wouldn’t be satisfied with a half-answer. He was too perceptive. Too persistent.

“The League… discovered other universes,” he said.

“Whoa, _what_?”

“Parallel worlds. And—”

“Parallel worlds. Like. Where my parents didn’t die?”

Bruce swallowed hard, and Dick wished he could erase his words. That wasn’t the right thing to say. Bruce had probably had the same thought, about his own parents. And maybe about Dick’s, too. No wonder he was feeling so alone.

Dick shook his head, waved the thought of other worlds away. He couldn’t think about something like that, anyway. As tempting as it was, to imagine a world with his mom and dad, it wouldn’t do any good. His life was what it was.

“Forget it. What does that have to do with you and Clark?”

Bruce nodded, and his shoulders dropped, almost like the question was a relief after the last one. “In the world where he’s with Lois… he’s happier.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.”

Dick squinted. “But how do you _know_?”

Bruce pursed his lips. “I know him.”

“But how do you know that _this_ is going to be like _that_? Did you date him in that world? Did you break up with him?”

Bruce didn’t say anything, but his eyes widened ever-so-slightly, like they always did when he put together a new lead on a case. Dick bit back the words that threatened to lash out at Bruce: that it would have been a _major_ oversight had Bruce been so wrapped up in his own emotional reactions to have failed to take something so basic into consideration.

Instead, he settled for: “You should’ve talked to me, Bruce. Before doing all this.”

Bruce shook his head. “You’re not—”

“Not _what_? I’m your _partner_. I’m your _friend._ But you didn’t ask me what I thought. You didn’t—you didn’t even _tell_ me that you’d broken up.” Dick’s voice wavered now. “It’s _exactly_ like you said to Superman. You knew I’d have a good argument to stop you, so you didn’t even _ask_. You just did what you wanted. Even though it affects me, too.”

Bruce listened in silence.

Dick shook his head, frustrated but not wanting to pile more onto Bruce. “You know what? I don’t think this is about other universes at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is just… you thinking you aren’t good enough,” he guessed. “Clark is _really_ good. That’s hard sometimes.”

Bruce made a small noise in the back of his throat. Dick was right.

“But you’re good, too. Even this… this thing you did—which is pretty stupid, honestly—you did it for him, in a weird way.”

Bruce looked up, met Dick’s eye.

“And you took me in,” Dick pointed out. “You helped me.”

“I saw myself in you,” Bruce tried to argue. “That’s not—”

“You know you could just do whatever you wanted all day and never work and drink so much you don’t even remember how much life sucks, but you _don’t_. You go out to Gotham _every_ night, to _help_ people. To protect them. To keep them safe. And you even are good to the bad guys we catch. You believe in them, try to get them help.”

Bruce shrugged.

“No, that’s—” Dick kicked him. “That’s not _nothing_. You’re good, too. And people like me and Clark know that. That’s why we stay. It’s not like your mopey song. Not everyone goes away. Clark wouldn’t have left you. Not ever.”

“Hn.”

“And Alfred won’t. And I won’t.”

A weak smile pulled at Bruce’s lips, and Dick scooted closer.

“Listen, I’m… I’m pretty mad. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not. This _sucks_ , and you did it, and you didn’t have to. But I’m still _here_ , aren’t I?”

“You _have_ to be,” Bruce noted. “Legally.”

“That’s _not_ why I’m here,” Dick said, almost offended. Like he’d only stuck around because he’d be dragged back by DCF. “You do remember I _chose_ to be here, right?”

Bruce didn’t really acknowledge that. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry that this is affecting you.”

Dick nodded. “I know you are,” he said, sighing and leaning against Bruce, feeling the weight of fatigue setting in.

“But you’re still angry.”

“Yeah,” Dick said through a yawn, but he leaned harder into Bruce and let his eyes stay closed from the yawn. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

Dick squinted as the midday sun shone through the diner window, making it impossible to see if Clark was approaching. He shifted his weight on the booth cushion, sticking and unsticking his legs from the vinyl. Donna had said this would be a good idea, catching up with Clark, but now he wasn’t so sure.

 _Maybe I should just bail_ , he texted.

The phone lit back up. _That’s not you,_ Donna’s message read. _You’re not B._

Dick groaned. She was right. If he cut Clark out because he was upset, he’d be no better than Bruce. And he _had_ looked forward to seeing Clark again, originally. Before he knew what Clark had done.

He’d have to just set his feelings aside.

Finally, Clark walked in and slid into the booth. He ran his hand through his hair, taming it to look more _mild-mannered reporter_ and less _windswept superhero_.

“Hi, Dickie. How’s it going?”

Dick scrunched his nose at the false cheer. “How’s it _going_? Seriously?”

Clark’s eyes fell, and he ran his finger along the menu.

“It _sucks_ , Clark.” So much for setting his feelings aside.

“I know. I know it does.”

“Do you? Because when you were talking to Bruce, you said things were _going well_. You’re _happy_.”

“Well, I—”

“Don’t you think it’s kinda _shitty_ to get to be happy when Bruce and I are miserable?” He looked up, daring Clark to disagree, or at least to try to scold him for his language.

But Clark just squeezed his eyes shut. At last, he said, “I don’t want either of you to be miserable.”

“Yeah, well.” Dick sighed and opened the menu, even though he’d already ordered two slices of pie for them. “We both are.”

“This was _Bruce’s_ choice,” Clark noted.

“It was,” Dick agreed, flipping absently to the lunch section. “I’ve yelled at him. But it’s your fault, too.”

The waitress came back with the pie—one chocolate custard, one apple—and a coffee for Clark.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Dick looked to Clark, who fixed his coffee while saying, “No, thank you.”

As soon as she left, he put down the spoon with a _clink_. “He… Listen, Dick. Bruce _knew_ there was a chance that things would work with Lois.”

“Mmhmm.” Dick focused intently on dividing one neat bite of the custard, and then he looked back up with an interrogator’s focus. “But don’t you think he had the right to _hope_ that you’d come back?”

“Well. Sure. I guess.” Clark sighed. “But I can’t really do anything about that now. I’m with Lois. I like her. I… I _love_ her.”

Dick rolled his eyes.

“Hey. You should give her a chance.”

“Why? Why _should_ I?”

Clark cocked his head. “Because you’re important to me, and she’s important to me.”

Dick huffed.

“And Bruce likes her.”

“Does not.”

“Does too,” Clark shot back. “They _dated_ , you know.”

“ _Did not_ ,” Dick said, even though there was no reason at all for Clark to make up a thing like that. Plus, Bruce _did_ have a habit of dating reporters—easier to get out the word about his phony antics, mixed with a little bit of playing with fire given how astute they tended to be.

“Did too!” Clark laughed. “The summer we met. The… year before he met you.”

“I thought he dated _Selina_ the year before he met me.”

Clark shrugged, like that wasn’t an objection at all. “They were never serious,” he explained. “Just a few dates. And then he backed off, once he knew how much I liked her, and… then he met Selina, and the rest was history.”

Dick scrunched his face. Bruce had an entire life before they met—he knew that full well—and of course, Bruce wasn’t one for sharing unnecessary details, but it still felt like the world had flipped upside-down somehow. He thought back to interactions he’d seen—their wry, playful banter. Dick had just assumed their comfort with each other was due to being mutual friends with Clark, but what Clark was saying… It made sense.

“Is that why they’re… like _that_?”

“Like what?”

Dick’s eyebrows raised. “ _Miss Lane,_ ” he said, doing his best Brucie impression, “ _what a pleasant surprise to find you here! What brilliant new investigation is occupying you these days?_ ”

He shifted his posture to imitate how he’d seen Lois speak. Savvy, wry, a little flirtatious. “ _Sorry, Bruce, it’s confidential,_ ” he continued. “ _But maybe once it’s further along I can get a quote from you? You_ always _know the right thing to say._ ”

Dick crossed his arms. “Like _that_.”

Clark bit back a smile and shook his head. “Fine. Yes. That.” His nose crinkled slightly, and then he added, “Though that was _also_ just to mess with me, I think.”

Dick took another bite of pie, considering the new evidence. “I guess if you and Bruce both liked her, she can’t be all that bad.”

“Give her a chance, Dick. I think you’ll like her, too.”

Dick nodded, but a wave of sadness hit him. Talking with Clark like this just made everything feel so _final_. He was really moving on. And it was impossible to blame him for it.

“What if you and Bruce are never friends again?”

“We will be. Somehow…” Clark blinked hard behind his glasses, and Dick could’ve sworn he saw tears forming, but then they were gone. “I don’t know what that looks like, yet, but I’m not giving up.”

“Hm.”

“Dick. You can’t lose hope.”

“I _know_ that,” Dick said, poking at the remnants of his pie. He didn't need anyone to tell him to have hope, even in the midst of darkness.  He _had_ hope. Hope that Clark would get bored of Lois and come back to Bruce. Thinking that Bruce would get over his grief and mend fences anytime soon?  That required a lot _more_ than hope. “I just… Whatever. Forget it.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Clark clearly not knowing what else to say.

After Clark finished his pie and coffee, he cleared his throat. “So. How were the rest of your performances?”

Dick shrugged. “Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Good,” he corrected. “It was fun. Different. Wish I could just do plays instead of school.”

“Maybe you’ll be an actor. Like Alfred was.”

“Nah,” Dick said. “If you have to miss a rehearsal or a performance, it’s really bad. I can’t do that and keep up my _other_ work.”

Clark nodded.

He didn’t, like most of the adults Dick encountered as Robin, try to suggest that his _other work_ could be left behind. It was one of the things Dick liked about Clark. He understood.

“You’re gonna follow in Bruce’s footsteps, then?”

“I kinda thought,” Dick answered, “maybe I’d help Bruce with the Foundation. Give speeches and stuff. Work at the trapeze school on the side. Maybe a journalist.”

“A journalist?” Clark’s eyebrows raised. “Still?”

“Still,” Dick confirmed, half-annoyed that Clark would question that.  Like it had been some sort of half-baked idol-worship idea.  ...like he hadn’t idolized Clark long before Bruce had started dating him.  “I _am_ going to that journalism camp next month, remember? At Hudson?”

“I remember. I just thought…”

Dick rolled his eyes, ignoring Clark’s insecure _thought_. “Maybe if I like it, I can intern at the _Planet_ next summer.”

Clark beamed. “You’d come to Metropolis?”

“You think I’d want to spend time at the _Gazette_? With Vicki Vale?” Dick stuck out his tongue. “No _thanks_. You and Lois can train me.”

“Lois, huh?”

Dick shrugged, all too aware of the generous concession he’d made in his side comment, and Clark smiled wider.

“That’d be really neat, Dick. And Jimmy would love—” Clark stopped mid-sentence and turned his head. “Sorry, Dick, I—”

“Go,” Dick said. “Is it a quick thing or a big thing?”

Clark’s face twisted in guilt.

“ _Go_ ,” Dick repeated. He made a shooing gesture. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

Clark stood up and pulled out a ten to leave on the table, but then he hesitated. “Dickie, are we good?”

Dick nodded, putting on a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re good. Red and Blue.”

Clark grinned, and then he was gone, and Dick was able to deflate. They _were_ good, but it wasn’t the same. Not without Bruce there with them.

He flipped out his phone. The message from Donna was still there. _That’s not you. You’re not B._

And he wasn’t.

So he clicked over to his messages with Wally, and wrote: _Hey. Thinking that party idea of yours is a good one. You still up for pizza with the gang?_

He set the phone down and spun it around, waiting for an answer. Half a minute later, the phone buzzed.

_Always.  Name the time and place and I ll get everyone there. Even fish boy. Weve got your back._


	7. Rebuilding

 

Bruce had expected assassins. That kind of thing came with the territory of investigating something called the _League of Assassins_. Darrk’s men were relentless, fanatical, and expertly trained.

Bruce had prepared for that.

But something was _wrong_ with these assassins. They didn’t fight like the others he’d seen. They wouldn’t fall.

He kept fighting. Maybe that was his mistake. Because wave after wave had come, and he was still fighting.

And then, while grappling with one would-be-killer, Bruce pulled back the black cloth mask and saw a familiar face. Too familiar.

“You?”

He knew it wasn’t really Clark. It couldn’t be.

He was drugged.

He disarmed another bo-staff-wielding assassin, and tried to remind himself of reality.

He was in Gotham City. He was Bruce Wayne. He was Batman.

He was drugged. He had to be.

There was no woozy side-effect, though. No fuzzy memory. Just the hallucination and the endless swarm of ninja.

How long had he been fighting? An hour? Hours?

How long since he’d _slept_? At least three days. Maybe he wasn’t drugged. Just sleep-deprived.

A shower of shuriken flew at his face, and he ducked, but a staff hit him hard in the neck as he did.

“Get up, Bruce,” the assassin said. Clark’s voice. “Get up and fight.”

Drugged. He was drugged.

And then everything was black.

“Batman? Bruce? Get up, Bruce.”

Clark’s voice surrounded him, and he stirred, opening his eyes. He shot a fist out, refusing to fall for the assassins’ ploy. It was caught impossibly fast, but gently, and then he was gently, but forcibly, pushed back down. It _was_ Clark. Real Clark, this time.

“What… happened?” he asked.

“You almost _died_ is what happened.”

“I was drugged.”

“Not exactly, but you’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Bruce tried to look around, though his neck did not want to turn. A soft light shone everywhere, without any discernible origin in the white chamber. This wasn’t Gotham. Wasn’t the Cave.

He was in the Fortress.

“You… saved me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Clark said, almost laughing.

Bruce squeezed his eyes back shut. He hadn’t asked to be saved. But he was here, with Clark. He was safe. He was okay.

He reached a hand up, and Clark took it, though warily.

“The hallucinations…” Bruce muttered. “I saw you… You _attacked_ me…”

Clark sighed and wrapped his other hand around Bruce’s, and then lowered his forehead down to his knuckles.  It was a comfort, though then Clark sighed.  “ _Jesus_ , Bruce.”

“It was Darrk,” Bruce recalled, his memory returning. “Darrk’s assassins. Where’d they go?”

“ _Dark_? What are you _talking_ about?” Clark lifted his head. His brow knit—confused, worried. “Bruce, there weren’t any _assassins_.”

“There _were_ ,” Bruce insisted, pushing himself up. A pain stabbed in his side, and he fell back.

“You need to rest,” Clark ordered.

“I’m fine. I’m alive. I have you.”

Clark grimaced and released Bruce’s hand, setting it down at his side. “Bruce… you _threatened_ me last time I saw you. Do you not remember _anything_?”

Bruce closed his eyes, tight. Remember. What was there to remember?

“I remember assassins.”

He opened his eyes to see Clark standing above him, now. His folded arms, wrapped in blue Kryptonian armor, took up almost all of Bruce’s view.

“Maybe when you started,” Clark said, suddenly aloof, formal. “The rest—that was Mxyzptlk.”

“How—“

“You were fighting inter-dimensional un-realities. They only fight if you engage them, and any harm you do to them just comes back to yourself. You would’ve _known_ that if you’d been at the League briefing—one of the many that you’ve skipped, because you’re avoiding me. Because you _broke_ _up_ with me.”

The reality snapped back to him, and nausea came with it.

He shouldn’t be here. Not at the Fortress. Not with Clark.

Clark should never have saved him. Bruce had been clear enough: he wasn’t welcome in Gotham. But Clark had come anyway. Because that was what Clark did.

“Hnng,” Bruce grunted.

“I should’ve told you. I thought—I thought he was focused on me. Apparently…” Clark stopped his sentence. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bruce had been dragged into it. To toy with Superman. That was how Mxyzptlk operated. He bent reality.

“That’s why you’re here,” Clark explained. “I needed the Kelex to run the necessary diagnostics. Do you know where you are?”

“Your Fortress,” Bruce managed to say, as the floating robot whirred around him.

“ _Who_ you are?”

He eyed the robot, but it wasn’t as if Kelex didn’t know everything about him already.

“I’m Bruce Wayne,” he whispered. An orphan. “I’m Batman. I’m Dick’s guardian.”

That was reality.

He _was_ in love with Clark Kent. But he had ruined that. And now he was here, in Clark’s debt.

That was also reality.

Clark nodded. He looked across at a screen that Bruce couldn’t see. “Good. You should be okay, I think. Mr. Mxyzptlk—he’s gone now.”

“I need—home.”

“Alfred’s on his way,” Clark said. “He’ll fly you home, since I know you can’t _stand_ to see me.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Clark interrupted, though he didn’t sound glad at all. But Bruce couldn’t say he was glad himself, either.

“Thnk—” Bruce managed to get out, but the word caught in his throat, and he ended up coughing instead.

“No need to thank me. I’ll always save you.”

“Don’t,” Bruce said. “Don’t save me again.”

Clark opened his mouth but then bit back whatever he was going to say, and then he dropped his shoulders and sighed. “Just get some rest, Bruce. You look like a train wreck.”

Bruce would’ve taken offense at it, but Clark was probably right. He _felt_ like a train wreck.

His eyes shut, and the next time they opened, Clark and the Fortress were both gone and he was back in the Batcave, alone.

 

* * *

 

Bruce adjusted the slide under the microscope and examined the evidence again. Yet another murder—no, assassination—with shady ties to the shadowy Dr. Darrk. Yet another case where he couldn’t find a shred of hard evidence to prove a connection. Maybe the League of Assassins was just that good at hiding their tracks.

Or maybe he was getting sloppy. Reckless.

His focus was interrupted by clipped steps on the floor of the Cave. Diana’s.

“How’d you get in here?” he asked, not moving.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she kept walking and then said, “Kal told me what happened.”

Bruce looked up from the microscope to see Diana marching toward him with purpose. “ _Did_ he.”

“Yes. He did. You recklessly endangered yourself. And if you had just been at _any_ of the League briefings in the past month, you would have known better.”

“Hn.” He turned back to the evidence.

“No. You _look_ at me,” she ordered.

He gritted his teeth and obeyed. “ _What_.”

“You are a _leader_ of the Justice League,” she scolded. “When we act, the _idea_ is that you act _with_ us. You, me, Clark. We are a united front. That’s how we founded this.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “Did Clark also tell you how he _revealed my identity_ without my permission?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “I’m not a judge taking tallies of each of your misdeeds, Bruce. I’m your friend and partner. And _you_ are the one who is undermining the League’s cohesion.”

“It’s not _just_ me.”

“Isn’t it? Because he _wants_ you there. He _misses_ you.”

Her words made Bruce’s stomach turn. “Not enough, clearly.”

“For Hera’s _sake_ —he wants his friend back! His brother!”

“Well, I want _him_ back!”

Diana stared at him, eyes wide, chest heaving in restrained anger. “Do you _hear_ yourself, Bruce? You ended the relationship. _You_ did that.”

The words cut into Bruce. He’d done that. It was what Dick had said, too. _This sucks, and you did it, and you didn’t have to._ And what had Clark said? They should be friends again. _You_ _left me_.

But it didn’t feel that way.

“And you— _you_ ,” Diana continued, “chose to end not only your romantic relationship, but your friendship as well. With no concern for how that affects me or the League, I should note. You play the victim, but you are only victim to your own stubbornness.”

“It’s not stubbornness!” Bruce snapped back.

“Isn’t it, Bruce?”

“If I could just tell myself to get over him, I _would_ ,” he said through gritted teeth. His heart raced, holding back the emotions that threatened to explode, using his full will to keep that bottle sealed. “But I _can’t_. I can’t _see_ him, because—because it _hurts_ , Diana. I can’t do it.”

Diana’s lips pressed tight. “I’m sorry it hurts. But you’re an adult. So you need to act like an adult and deal with the situation, because you created it. What’s the expression? You made this bed—”

“Don’t you think I _know_ that?!” His volume raised enough to disturb the bats, who squeaked and fluttered out of their hidden nooks where they had been sleeping.

“You think…” His voice became quieter now, but it wavered, betraying how close to breaking he felt. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out mangled, almost like a cry of pain. Diana would see through it. “You think I don’t constantly go over about I did this to _myself_? I was trying to do the right thing, but I… I’ve fucked everything up. I can’t have Clark—and I can’t _not_ have him. I _need_ him, but I let him go. I _forced_ him to go. And now I’m alone, and I probably always _will_ be.”

He’d been resigned to it, once. But then he’d entertained hope, with Selina, until she dashed it. Twice. And so he’d built up defenses. But Clark had forced him to pull down all the walls he’d built.

And now Clark was gone. Clark and Selina had nothing in common. It was _Bruce_ that was the problem.

“People…” He voice hitched, but he pressed on: “People like me don’t get to _be_ happy. I just… create a self-fulfilling prophecy and drive everyone away. Don’t you think I _know_ that I did this to myself? To Clark?”

His voice dropped lower as he continued, “To Dick? To you? I _know_! And every time I see Clark, it’s a reminder of what a mess I made, how I ruined _everything_. It’s a hell I created for myself, and I’m trapped in it.”

Diana inhaled, closed her eyes, gathering patience before responding. But he didn’t let her. The words were already coming out, and there was no stopping it now. All the thoughts that he’d gone over internally, again and again, were now out in the open. Real. Too real.

“I messed up out there,” he acknowledged, his voice low now. “I know that too. I should’ve figured it out—even without the briefing. I knew there was something wrong. But I… didn’t care. Every time I go out, I have to stop myself from wishing for someone to just _finally_ succeed and kill me, to put me out of this misery.”

“Bruce—”

“But I can’t even want that, because Dick needs me. And… God.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “Dick shouldn’t depend on someone like me. Someone who ruins everything good he touches. I should’ve been shot in that alley instead of my parents.”

A light fingertip brushed his cheek. “Oh, Bruce,” Diana said, her voice soft now. “Don’t say that.”

He opened his eyes to see her looking down in love and pity, now, and her arms reached around him and pulled his head to her shoulder. He was too tired to push back, to pretend that he didn’t need this. It wasn’t her job to console him.

But his reality was falling apart, and he couldn’t take much more.

So he reached his arms behind her and held on, hiding his face and the tears that he’d held back for so long. Every pent-up expression of grief came pouring out now, and he felt his chest shake on hers as he cried.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself, and then she took him by the shoulders and held him away.

“It is _good_ that Dick needs you. And that you need Kal. And Kal needs you, in return. What _you_ need is to figure out how to have him in your life without the romantic relationship you had.”

“I’ve tried. I don’t know how.”

She shrugged. “Find someone else to share your bed with?”

Bruce laughed darkly. “I _tried_ that. But a meaningless fling is just that: meaningless. I still want _him_.”

“I understand,” Diana said. “Still…”

She knit her fingers together, and looked past Bruce, far off into memory.

“Where I come from,” she said, “my sisters didn’t have the option of holding grudges. One island. Long lives. There was heartbreak, but we all knew that at the end of the day, we had to live with each other, fight alongside one another. The sisterhood—not of blood, but of arms, of fellowship—bound us all. As it binds you and me, and Kal-El,” she said, meeting his eyes again. “Amazons love fiercely, but when it does not last, they know they must transform what they had into a different kind of love. _Eros_ into _philia._ And I know you can do the same.”

“ _Can_ I?”

Diana smiled. “You have the will to do _anything_ , Bruce. And this is no impossible task. Maybe go, get out of Gotham for a while. Go somewhere new. And then come back, fresh. Make it work. He is not your lover, anymore. But he _is_ your brother, and you must accept that, or we will all suffer for it.”

Bruce nodded. He did have some leads to follow with Darrk, in the Far East. Maybe this was a good time for it. Get out of Gotham.

“You will find a way, Bruce, if you choose to. You always do.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce blinked open, groggy and grimacing in pain. There had been assassins. He remembered that. Real ones, this time. Two dozen, at least. With bo staffs. They’d ambushed him. Outnumbered him.

Darrk. He’d found Darrk. And the woman with him. And then he’s been gassed and attacked.

But now he was inside somewhere, a dimly lit room that brought back memories of meditation and training, years ago.

“You are awake,” a voice said. The woman.

He tried to sit up, to ask where he was, but his entire body seized, and all that came out was “Nngghh.”

“Ssshh, habib,” she cooed, easing him back down. Arabic. He remembered that, too. She’d spoken Arabic to Darrk, on the train. “ _Stay still._ ”

She knelt over him and pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. Vanilla and jasmine wafted over him. And something else. Rose. Peat. Woodsmoke.

“You are hurt,” she said, in English again. “You came near death. I saved you.”

It was so much like before that he breathed in the scents again and looked around. He wasn’t in the Fortress, this time. And this woman was nothing like Clark, even if her touch filled him with the same warmth.

Not the same. Not the warmth of the sun at midday, but of a fire in the desert night.

“There were assassins,” he said.

“Yes. Many.”

They _were_ real. This time, they were real.

“You are wounded. And probably concussed. But I am a doctor,” the woman said. “I can help you.”

She didn’t look old enough to be a doctor. Not an experienced one, at least. He closed his eyes under the cloth, and then realized something else. Something worse.

He wasn’t wearing his cowl.

He snapped up, grabbing the woman’s wrist in a panic. “My—”

“Your mask is here,” she said, holding it up. “I had to remove it, to tend to your wounds, check for concussion. There was no other way.”

“But—”

“I am not an enemy. You do not need to hide yourself from me.”

Bruce wasn’t convinced. He shielded his eyes with a hand, pushing through the pain in his shoulder. Had he hurt that, too?

She laughed and touched her fingertips to his jaw. “I told you. You have nothing to fear,” she said, gently removing his hand. “I am as much a prisoner here as you.”

Bruce looked up again to see her smile, her keen green eyes, her chestnut hair falling down from her face.

“Where am I?” he managed to ask.

“A Buddhist monastery,” she said. “Locked away by my father’s enemy.”

“Your _father’s_ enemy?”

“Darrk—Darcel—is an… associate of my father’s, become an enemy. He hoped to use me as a pawn in their game.” She began to unwrap a bandage from his arm, but her jaw tightened and her eyebrows lowered in a focused expression, anger at some absent malefactor or some abstract injustice. “I will _not_ be a pawn.”

These last words were unlike the others. They had a quiet intensity to them, a determination, a will that would not be compromised. He knew it well.

“No. You’re not a pawn. You’re a doctor,” he said, echoing back her words from before. What kind of person was this—daughter of some assassin lord, committed to healing? It didn’t add up. Then again, here he was, son of a doctor, committed to a life of violence. He had no room to judge. “You know, my father wanted me to be a doctor.”

“And what happened?”

He considered the question. The truth couldn’t compromise his identity any more than his face. “He died,” he said. “My father and my mother.”

“Oh,” she said, quietly. “That is horrible.”

He looked away.

“My mother was killed,” the woman said, breaking the silence. “I saw it, when I was only a girl. But I still have my father. He is… complicated. But to lose him too would be unbearable.”

Bruce swallowed. He hadn’t borne it very well himself.

She held a candle to his arm, inspecting the wound. And then she smiled and added, “He was a healer, too, when he was young.”

“Is that why you became a doctor?”

“Medical student,” she ceded, resuming her earlier conversational tone. “At the University of Cairo. That is where Darrk’s men captured me, and where I will return, once you are well and Darrk is apprehended. Perhaps…” She looked back up, meeting his eye and smiling while shaking a bottle of something onto a fresh cloth. “Perhaps _you_ will escort me home safely?”

She pressed the new cloth onto his wound, and he sucked in air at the stinging sensation before regaining control of his reactions. It was a tolerable pain.

He nodded. He could do that, easily enough. It was a small repayment. And the more he could learn about someone who had seen his face—who would surely figure out his identity soon enough—the better.

“My name is Talia,” she said, answering a question that hadn’t been asked as she dabbed the cloth around, cleaning the area. “Daughter of the One Who Is Called Ra’s al Ghul. And you…”

She looked at him again and tilted her head. “You _do_ look familiar,” she said. “But your secret is safe. I swear it.”

There was no reason to believe her, but her last words came with the same heaviness as her earlier declaration. Like it or not, he had no choice but to trust her. She knew.

“You know who I am?”

She shrugged. “All that matters is that you are the detective who saved me.”

“I thought _you_ saved _me_?”

“I did. So: we are even.” She smiled, a mischievous spark in her eye, almost a challenge. But that was _right_. They were even. And after a year of feeling inadequate in the shadow of Clark’s unimpeachable goodness and invincibility, there was a comfort in that. “Perhaps you have finally met your equal, dear detective.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until he was standing outside a day later, facing down Darrk, a pistol pointed directly at his face, that he thought about Clark again. Diana had been right. Getting out of Gotham, out of the country, had made it easier. But now, suddenly all he felt was regret. Not at breaking up with Clark, exactly, but at pushing him away. He hadn’t even told Clark where he was going.

And this could have been the end. Earlier, when Talia had saved him—that could have been the end, too. _Any_ day could be the end. If he died here, now, trying in vain to bring down the League of Assassins, what would have been his last words to Clark? _Don’t save me again_?

Petulant. Stubborn. Ungrateful.

If only he could see him. Apologize.

At least he’d told Dick goodbye, wished him luck on his time watching over Gotham while Bruce was gone. Dick was all that really mattered. His family. But Diana had called Clark his brother. And that mattered, too.

Half caught up in regret, half still reeling from his earlier head trauma, he only half-heard Talia saying, “Ebenezer, don’t do this. Put the gun down.”

The gun. She had one too. Taken it off one of the assassins earlier.

“Leave him alone!” she shouted.

Maybe this was the end, after all. He would die. Bullet in his head.

 _Leave them alone_.

A doctor. A socialite. A gun. What did it matter—a Gotham street or a windy hillside in Nepal? Death had finally caught up with him. He’d always been on borrowed time, anyway.

“You’ll never do it,” Darrk taunted. “Say goodbye, Batman.”

And then two shots rang out.


	8. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluff you've been patiently waiting for! (even if you needed to skip some of the angst)

 

Clark squinted at the paper and grimaced.

“You know our computers have a spell-check, right?” he called out.

“Don’t trust it,” Lois called back.

Clark rolled his eyes and uncapped his pen when Jimmy’s freckled hands appeared leaning on his desk.

“Bruce Wayne’s coming,” Jimmy whispered through heavy breaths.

Clark looked up, not hiding the surprise on his face. Bruce didn’t come by the _Planet_. Not these days. Not since the breakup.

“You sure?”

“Saw him in the lobby. I sprinted. He’ll be right—” Jimmy cut off his words as the elevator dinged open, revealing Bruce in a slate-blue linen suit, polished head to toe.

He looked good. Better than he had in weeks. Months.

There was a _chance_ Bruce was here to see Perry. A small chance.

But then he turned away from the corner office and shouted, “Clark!”

Clark grimaced and pushed himself out of his chair, knocking over a mug full of pens in the process.

“Nice one,” Jimmy muttered, stooping down to clean up the mess. “I got this. Good luck.”

“Bruce, uh, hi,” Clark started, coming around from his desk. “What’s—”

“I’ve got a scoop,” Bruce said, strolling over. He stopped short of Clark, pointed in Lois’s direction, and added, “For you.”

“For me?”

“For _her_?”

“She’s the better journalist,” Bruce explained, causing Lois to flash a stupidly smug grin in Clark’s direction. As if Clark didn’t know. As if Clark didn’t love that about her.

And then Bruce took Clark’s hand—which Clark hadn’t exactly extended, but that apparently didn’t matter—and pulled him into a hug. Bruce laughed and stepped back.

Fake. It was fake.

“Fair,” Clark ceded.

“You’ll hear it anyway,” Bruce muttered.

Clark shook his head. “Lois doesn’t share information.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Not doubting. A _that’s-not-what-I-meant-and-you-know-it_ eyebrow.

Clark shrugged.

“How are you, Clark? It’s been too long.”

Clark’s nose wrinkled at being subjected to the _Brucie_ act like this.

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly. “And you? You… look good.”

Close up, it was even more clear. The bags under Bruce’s eyes and ragged stubble were gone. He looked well-rested, healthy. Almost glowing.

“I’m great.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Great?”

Bruce nodded and flashed a schmoozing smile. “Come to lunch. It’s been too long.”

Clark opened and closed his mouth. Looked at Lois, who shrugged. “I have an interview—”

“I’ll cover it,” said Lois.

Clark shut his eyes, hard. Of course she would.

“She’ll cover it,” Bruce echoed.

“Don’t get the idea that that’s a favor,” Clark muttered. “She just wants the story.”

“Better journalist,” Bruce repeated. “Come on. Get your jacket. You can’t go out in shirtsleeves.”

“O-okay.” Clark obeyed and followed Bruce to the elevator. As soon as they stepped in, Bruce’s smile shifted—subtly, but noticeably enough—from false to genuine.

So the act had just been for the rest of the _Planet._ Not for Clark. A weight dropped from Clark’s shoulders. He wasn’t being shut out.

“What the heck _happened_ to you?” Clark muttered.

Bruce’s eyebrows knit together, and he shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. Sullen. Short-tempered.”

Bruce shrugged. “And?”

He had a point. That _was_ his default.

Clark continued: “And _now_ you’re walking on clouds, asking me to lunch, acting like we’re—like we’re _friends_.”

“You said you _wanted_ to be friends. I’m being a friend. Am I not _supposed_ to?”

“You’re not—I _do_ want that, but—What _happened_?” he repeated.

The elevator jerked to a stop. Bruce turned away from the control panel, where he’d jimmied some kind of lock-pick into the override, and lowered his voice. “You’ve heard of the League of Assassins?”

“Through you, mostly. Weren’t they the ones you _thought_ you were fighting, when Mxy—?”

Bruce hand-waved the question away, and Clark fell silent.

“I finally tracked them down,” Bruce said, his voice still low. He was close. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. “And Darrk—their leader? He’s done for. Hit by a train.”

Clark raised his eyebrows. “That’s your scoop?”

Bruce shrugged. “Related. I told you—the scoop’s for Lois.”

“Fine. So you… moved forward on a lead. And that means you’re okay being friends?”

“Mm.”

“Sorry, _mm_?”

“Yes,” said Bruce, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And I—well. It was close. I almost… well. I almost died.”

“How?”

“Darrk had a gun.”

“That’s not exactly—”

“Point blank. That would’ve been it, if it hadn’t been for… ah. The train.”

Bruce pulled out a pin, and the elevator lurched back into motion.

He was lying. Not lying, but hiding something. Clark knew better than to press too directly, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious.

“No offense,” he said, “but you almost die all the time, Bruce.”

Bruce pinned Clark in a stoic gaze. And then elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and Bruce hung his head and laughed before walking off.

“I do not,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

“This was different.”

“Because of the _train_?”

“No, because—” Bruce looked out, across the street. “What do you think? Noodles?”

“Sure.”

“I met someone,” Bruce said, as if it were nothing, as if that explained his mysterious encounter with Darrk, and then picked up his pace, leaving Clark standing shocked in the middle of the lobby.

Clark caught himself lagging and hurried forward, weaving between and around all the people coming in and out of the building for lunch or midday appointments.

“You what now?”

“It’s not anything serious,” Bruce explained, as if that was a good thing.

“You _met_ someone. Like a _someone_ someone.”

“Yes, Clark. And I _like_ like her. I didn’t know you were twelve.”

They stepped onto the sidewalk, and Bruce raised an arm to hail a cab. One lurched over and Bruce opened the door.

“There’s perfectly serviceable Chinese across the street,” Clark noted.

“And there’s the best noodle house in Metropolis across town. Get in.”

Clark sighed and scooted his way to the far end of the cab’s back seat and waited as Bruce got in and gave the cabbie the address.

“No limo?”

Bruce shrugged. “Alfred had other things to do.”

“Right. So. This someone—how do you know it’s not serious?”

“She has secrets,” Bruce said. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

“ _You_ have secrets,” Clark noted.

Bruce cocked his head, took a second, and said, “She knows those.”

It was good Clark was already sitting down, because that bombshell put everything else Bruce had said to shame. Very few people knew Bruce’s identity, and almost all of them who did could be considered family in one way or another. Not strange ladies with secrets who were objects of _not serious_ affection. “Sorry, she _what_?”

“I didn’t _tell_ her. She found out. Not unlike you.”

Clark folded his arms across his chest. “I seriously doubt it was anything like my situation.”

Bruce shrugged. “If you say so. You saved my life. So did she. Twice.”

“Twice?”

Bruce nodded.

“But it’s not serious.”

“I can’t—”

“You can’t trust her.” Clark rolled his eyes. “There’s always _some_ excuse, isn’t there?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes and then turned away, looking out the window.

“She must be special. Seems like you have actual feelings for her, whoever she is.”

Bruce nodded again. Clark wished he could say he felt nothing but happiness for his friend, but it stung, just a little. It wasn’t fair, he knew that. He was happy with Lois, and Bruce deserved the same. But part of him bitterly noted that _he_ was only recovering the happiness he’d involuntarily lost, while Bruce had chosen to throw that away.

“That’s good, Bruce,” he said, pushing away the bitterness. “That’s… really good. Do you think you’ll see her again?”

“Not sure. She lives in Cairo.”

“Yikes.”

“Hn,” Bruce agreed. “Medical school.”

“Well, your dad would like that.” No response. “Does Dick know?”

Bruce turned back again, his face full of incredulity. “He’s still waiting for us to get back together.”

“Still? He _does_ know that—”

“He knows,” Bruce answered, before the question was even asked. “He’s not deluded. He’s accepted it. But you know him. Hope springs eternal.”

Clark laughed, even as his heart broke at the idea. He didn’t want to string Dick along on false hope. “Maybe we should do something,” he said. “The three of us.”

“Maybe.”

“Help reestablish a new normal.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

Clark smiled, half still in disbelief that Bruce _was_ here, acting so casually, confiding in him. Like they were friends again. “I thought you just wanted Metropolis’s best noodles.”

Bruce scoffed, and the cab came to a stop. He handed the cabbie a fifty-dollar bill, which was easily three times the fare, even after a generous tip, and then opened the door to a run-down awning that advertised a basement-level restaurant.

“I’m not here for the food,” he said. “I’m here for the company.”

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for the company,” Dick said, hugging Donna goodbye for the third time. He hadn’t thought he’d needed it, but now after sharing jokes and commandeering the jukebox and stuffing himself with slice after slice at the local pizzeria in Happy Harbor, he felt light and easy for the first time in months.

“We’re your friends, Dick,” Donna assured. “You don’t need to thank us.”

“Listen,” said Roy. “Anytime bossman’s being a douchebag, you know where we are. God knows I need to get away from Ollie sometimes.”

Dick looked down, flushed. “He’s not a _douchebag_ ,” he muttered. “He tries. It’s just hard sometimes.”

“I mean, he was a _little_ bit of a douchebag,” Wally argued, and Garth stifled a laugh.

“But he’s better now,” Donna said. “That’s what Diana says.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed. Bruce had returned from his trip two days earlier, and he’d been jarringly _normal_ ever since. His mopey, depressing eighties dark-wave jams had been replaced by dancey, hopeful eighties dark-wave jams, and Dick hadn’t heard “Hurt” once since his return. He’d laughed at Dick’s jokes on patrol and started planning a trip to Cairo. “He… _does_ seem better. I don’t know what Diana said, but I guess it worked.”

“She does that,” Donna said, nodding sagely.

“Still,” Roy insisted. “Next time, don’t wait to call.”

“Got it,” Dick agreed.

“Group hug?” Wally suggested. He didn’t give any time to respond before he started pulling Donna and Roy in.

“Ugh,” Garth whined, “is this really necess—”

Donna threw an arm around Garth’s neck and pulled him in, cutting off his objection, and the next thing Dick knew, he was smashed up against all of his best friends.

“It’s for our fearless leader,” Wally said, over Dick’s head. “Of _course_ it’s necessary.”

And then Dick’s phone buzzed, and Garth leapt away in surprise, readying himself into a stance for spell-casting.

“It’s okay,” Dick said, laughing. “It’s my phone.”

“Sure you’re not just happy to see me?” Roy joked.

Dick rolled his eyes and read the caller ID. _B._ He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.

“What’s up?”

“I just got out of lunch with Clark, and we were thinking—”

“ _Sorry_? You just got out of _what_ now?”

“Lunch. With Clark,” Bruce repeated, in that jaw-clenched annoyed tone he used whenever needing to repeat himself. Annoyed as Bruce sounded, Dick felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. _Lunch_ was something normal people did. Something friends did together. “We thought maybe it would be… fun… to do something together sometime, the three of us. Or the… four of us. If you’re okay with Lois coming.”

“You think that would be _fun_ ,” he said back. “Hanging out with _Clark_. And _Lois_.”

Silence. Wally stretched his face and mouthed, _yikes_.

“Is this the _real_ Bruce Wayne?”

“Answer the question, Dick. He’s waiting for an answer, and I’d like to leave this city as soon as possible.”

It was the real Bruce Wayne. Somehow.

“Yeah,” Dick said. “That sounds…”

Dick looked around at his friends, who all watched with eager eyes. Wally grimaced. Donna gave a thumbs-up and a smile. Garth shrugged.

“Worth a shot,” Roy said.

“That sounds good,” Dick confirmed. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll be home in an hour. You’ll be there? Busy night tonight.”

“Yeah. Um. Getting home in an hourrrr…”

Wally signed an _okay_ , and Dick nodded.

“No problem, B. Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

He hung up and exhaled.

“You all right?” Donna asked.

“Yeah,” Dick said. Maybe Bruce _was_ better, now. And even if he wasn’t, Dick had his team. His friends. His family, really. It was like Roy had said, all those months ago. It was like having a troupe again. A community. He’d missed that. “Yeah, I think I really am.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, we gotta hit the spinning ride _first_ this time,” Dick declared. He looked at Lois, hesitated, and then explained, “So no one throws up on it.”

Clark grimaced at the memory, but it had still been a good night. Good enough to suggest coming back. Good enough for Bruce to agree to returning.

“ _No_ one, huh?” Lois asked.

“Yeah.” Dick shrugged and flashed a guilty grin. “Bruce _totally_ hurled all over, last time.”

“Ex- _cuse_ me?” Bruce cut in.

“ _Gosh_ , Bruce,” Dick said, shaking his head and barely containing his laughter. “It’s okay. I mean, maybe you shouldn’t have eaten _so much junk_ , but no one blames you.”

Bruce chuckled and elbowed Dick forward. “Go ride your ride already.”

Dick reached out for Clark’s arm. “You coming?”

Clark looked at Dick and then back at Bruce and Lois. He didn’t want to disappoint Dick—that was half the point of this outing—but leaving Lois and Bruce alone seemed like a bad idea. It had been one thing for Bruce to have offered to include Lois to begin with. Making Bruce hang out alone with her probably pushed past the line.

“Go on,” Bruce said. “We’ll wait.”

“Are you—”

Lois pushed Clark ahead. “We’ll be _fine_. We’re adults.”

“O-kay…” he said, still wary. He wrapped an arm around Dick’s back, leading them to the ride, but he kept an ear on Bruce and Lois. Just in case.

“Didn’t peg you for a junk food kinda guy,” Lois joked.

Bruce laughed breathily. “What, you think it’s all artisanal organic passed hors d’oeuvres?”

“Honestly, yes. Yes, I do. Or meals that basically look like hors d’oeuvres, but all on one big white plate with a drizzle of balsamic reduction across the top.” She fixed him with a sharp eye. “Or is that just part of the act? Because that was _definitely_ what you ordered when you took me to dinner that one time.”

“All right. Fair. I like good food. Guilty as charged.”

Lois laughed.

Bruce and Lois would be okay.

Clark turned his attention to Dick, who was talking about his summer program that was set to start the next day. “Bruce is making me do Mandarin for the language part,” Dick said, “even though I said that Arabic would be better for journalism.”

“Depends what journalism,” Clark noted. “Any languages help.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, stepping into one of the compartments, “but I thought it would be cool to spend a year as a war correspondent. Travel. Get tips for the League. Plus, I was reading Lois’s dossier, and it said _she_ started as a war correspondent. And she’s the best journalist there is. Right?”

Clark nodded. He took his own seat and smiled.

They would _all_ be okay.

***

“This is nice,” Lois said. “I mean, the fair is… whatever. It’s nice being out here, with you. All of you.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. It _was_ , actually. He’d managed feelings for Clark when they were friends, before. He could do it again.

“He missed you,” she said.

“I know. I just… needed some time.”

Lois nodded. “Can’t blame you. You know, when _Big Blue_ broke it off, I spent the next two weeks alternating between working forty-eight hours straight and crying over tubs of Rocky Road.”

Bruce grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” she said with a shrug. “I like work. I like ice cream.”

She slowly tested a smile, and Bruce returned it.

“Me too,” he said.

“Clark says you… met someone? He was fuzzy on the details, but—”

“I did,” Bruce confirmed, smiling more warmly at the thought of Talia. She’d sent him a message the night before, an invitation to Cairo. Not to Batman. To Bruce Wayne. He should’ve found that suffocating, but there was something counter-intuitively freeing about her already knowing. No need to pretend.

“Is she… someone who could make you happy, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure she needs to.”

He looked up at the spinning compartments, following the hypnotic circles that Clark and Dick made as they grinned. They were happy.

And maybe he was too.

He focused on the realities around him.

He was in at a county fair.

He was Bruce Wayne. He was an orphan, raised by Alfred Pennyworth, who had unending patience.

He was Batman. The dark knight. A detective. A protector of the innocent.

He was Dick’s guardian. Dick—the only one who could make him smile even when the whole world felt like ash. Who would always be by his side.

He was a member of the Justice League. With Diana, his friend, who had been able to get through to him when everyone else had failed.

He loved Clark Kent. Maybe not as a romantic partner, but as a friend. A brother, like Diana had said.

And even if things weren’t perfect, at least Clark was back in his life. His goofy farm-boy smile and bright alien eyes. The warmth of sunlight, the smell of the wind. Visits to the Kent farm, with Martha and Jonathan and golden wheat.

And that was his reality. That was what mattered.

“I have my family,” he explained, seeing Lois’s questioning eyes. Maybe she would be part of that too, someday. “I have Gotham. That’s all I really need.”

 

***

 

Dick latched the bar to the compartment where he and Clar sat. It was funny, being back here again. Only last time, Clark was asking, _Are you okay with this_? With Clark dating Bruce.

And now, he was asking the question again. Same question. Different meaning.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Clark asked.

Dick shrugged. “It’s all right. Lois isn’t bad. Like you said.”

Clark smiled. “Not bad, huh?”

“Hey. Don’t push it.”

“Okay, okay.” The safety announcements came overhead, and then the ride kicked into gear. “Thanks for giving her a chance. I know it’s not easy on you.”

Dick nodded. The truth was, he’d dealt with plenty worse, and he so often saw other kids dealing with so much worse. Bruce and Clark weren’t hurting each other. Clark was still around, still looking out for Dick, even though he didn’t have to. So he knew better than to think this was something he couldn’t get through.

Still, it had been a good year, when Bruce and Clark had been together. A happier year. One he worried would never quite be equaled. They’d had madcap adventures, quiet holidays, and everything in between. They’d been happy. Even Bruce. And the Manor had felt a little less lonely, a little less empty, when Clark had been around.

“Clark,” Dick started, as their car began to spin, “Is it bad to hope you still end up with Bruce? I mean. You and Lois… it hasn’t even been two months, and…”

Clark sighed. “It’s not bad. Just… don’t stake your happiness on it. Keep yourself open to other happy endings.”

“I know,” Dick said, looking away, out at the fair spinning around them. “I just… I wish things had been different. That it didn’t have to end. This is okay, but I miss how it was. The three of us.”

“I know, Dickie,” Clark said, his voice softening, but Dick’s eyes stayed gazing outward until Clark’s finger touched his chin. “Say. You remember the story I told you, out in Smallville last year?”

Dick shook his head. “Which one?”

“About things ending.”

The memory came back immediately. Sitting on the rooftop, looking at the stars, talking about Krypton and its legends.

The fire and embers, the cinders and ash, the night and darkness, the rebuilding and new beginning.

“Nightwing and Flamebird,” Dick recalled. “You said… nothing really ends forever.”

 _The end of one story is always beginning of the next_ , Clark had said.

Clark nodded. “Sometimes things end, even when we don’t want them to. But we keep going, right?”

“Right. We keep going,” Dick repeated. “We make something new. Like Nightwing.”

“Yeah,” said Clark, squeezing Dick close. “Like Nightwing. Do you think you can do that?”

Dick smiled, leaning into Clark’s warm, solid embrace. The lights around them spun by in a comforting blur. “Yeah. I think I can.”

 

***

 

Lois looked at the disembarking ride and crossed her arms, leaning lightly into Bruce, like a nudge in slow-motion. “They’re both so _good_ , aren’t they?”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

“He says Dick calls him Uncle Clark,” Lois noted. At first she’d found it cute, charming. Then, once Dick had turned antagonist, it had become irritating. But _now_ … now it made her smile. Clark didn’t have much in the way of family, and his affection for Dick made her love him even more.

“Well. He’s the closest thing I have a brother,” Bruce explained.

“Yeah,” said Lois. “He says the same thing.”

Bruce glanced down at his shoes and then back up at Lois. “I’m glad he has you.”

“Likewise.”

Dick’s laughter rang out over the crowd, and then Lois caught Clark’s eye, looking over Dick back at them. Clark smiled and then swooped down to pick up Dick and put him on his shoulders.

“Aren’t you too old for that?” Bruce asked as they drew near.

“Um, _never_ ,” Dick answered, but he flipped to the ground in an effortless move.

Maybe Dick would’ve sung a different song on that if one of his peers were there, but Bruce clearly wasn’t going to fight it. Dick’s happiness was Bruce’s happiness. Lois was gathering that fast enough.

“Time for food?” Dick asked.

Bruce shrugged. “Lois and I were just talking ice cream…”

“Really?”

Lois nodded, sharing a knowing smile with Bruce. “Rocky road.”

“Excellent,” Dick said, looping one arm around Bruce’s elbow and the other around Clark’s. “Let’s get ice cream.”

Bruce looked to Lois. “Shall we, Miss Lane?”

It was a nice gesture, but right now, she actually didn’t mind getting a little distance. She had an idea. “Give me a sec,” she said. “I’ll catch up.”

Clark looked back with concern, but she shook her head and smiled, waving them on. She pulled out her pad, flipped it open, and scribbled down a phrase. A snappy title for a future piece, maybe.

She watched the three of them—a seemingly-suave but tortured billionaire; a chatty little acrobat with the perception and persistence that could only match her own; and the alien superhero from Smallville who’d stolen her heart—and then she looked down at her notepad.

Lois crossed out the word _Greatest_. It didn’t have the right ring to it. _Great_ sounded boastful, pompous. And that wasn’t them. They were selfless. Kind. Good. But still the best.

She stuck her pen in her mouth, looked up again, and smiled. _Finest_ , she wrote in.

That’s what they were.

_The World’s Finest Heroes._

 

 _(never)_   T H E   E N D       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sharing these adventures with me! This was started on sort of a whim as a hiatus from my Dick series, but it's been a joy, and despite the angst of "The End", I'm glad I got to send them off and give closure that justifies the relationship I headcanon for them in the current canon. :)
> 
> I may add in more "missing issues" as inspiration strikes, so if you see an update, it'll most likely be set during the year of dating, not post-break-up (the exception may be one epilogue that I'm considering, but the title will make that obvious). 
> 
> My next projects are my take on Teen Titans "Year One", which will also be set pre-break-up, and a little story about Dick and Talia set immediately after this fic. Check back or subscribe if you are interested, and/or you can always find me @ novangla on tumblr as well if you don't already.


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